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WOMEN AS 
LETTER-WRITERS 



A COLLECTION OF LETTERS 
SELECTED AND EDITED 

r ' BY 

hA^s ADA M. INGPEN 



WITH PORTRAITS 



THE BAKER AND TAYLOR COMPANY 

NEW YORK 






2f74.ia 



TRINTKD IN GREAT BRITAIN 



3oi 

I. ■ 

Blackstone f^emorlai Library 



PREFACE 

Letter-writing, like so many time-honoured institu- 
tions, is becoming a lost art : it seems to have fallen into 
disuse with the quill-pen. Formerly, for those who 
were separated by distance, the voluminous letter was 
the most usual means of interchanging family news, 
thoughts, and ideas. But nowadays, with the ever- 
increasing facilities for quick travelling, the necessity 
has passed for the old-fashioned letter, so often a faithful 
record of daily life and opinions, and time can no longer 
be spared for the art of correspondence. It seems un- 
likely, therefore, that the present age will produce many 
such letters as were written in the eighteenth and nine- 
teenth centuries. 

Literary men have been justly famous for their 
correspondence, but women, with a few brilliant excep- 
tions, have not taken a foremost place in the ranks of 
great letter-writers. If women's letters, however, have 
not the style, lucidity of thought, nor, generally speak- 
ing, the descriptive powers of literary men, they do 
possess characteristics and a charm of their own ; they 
are frequently unstudied, written on any subject of 
' - iii 

JUN 9 .1910 



iv PREFACE 

momentary interest, and often with a feminine touch of 
humour. It is true that women cannot boast of a 
Johnson, a Cowper, a Byron, or a FitzGerald ; they 
can, however, lay claim to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 
Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu, Margaret Fuller, and Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning. 

Lady Mary was well aware of her gifts for letter- 
writing, as we are told she requested one of her corre- 
spondents to preserve her letters, predicting that they 
would in the future be well known and widely read. 
Although the letters of literary women predominate 
in the present collection, it is not primarily intended 
to comprise those of literary women alone, but to con- 
stitute a representative selection of women's corre- 
spondence, drawn from old and modern sources. With 
one or two exceptions, the writers of these letters 
attained fame, but all, I venture to think, deserve to 
be remembered. 

The owners of copyrights have very generously 
allowed me to include many letters in my selection ; 
and although I have acknowledged their permissions in 
every case, in notes printed with the extracts, it is 
a pleasure to express my hearty thanks, and to repeat 
that my indebtedness is due to the following : His 
Honour Judge Parry, for Dorothy Osborne ; Mr. Percy 
Fitzgerald, for Kitty Clive ; Mrs. Butler, Mr. A. E. 
Edgeworth, and Professor Edgeworth, for Maria Edge- 
worth ; Mrs. C. Bodham Johnson and Messrs. Jarrold & 



PREFACE V 

Sons, for Lady Hesketh ; Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, 
Triibner & Co., for Ann Godwin and Sara Coleridge ; 
Mr. W. C. Hazlitt for Mary Lamb ; Professor William 
Knight, for Dorothy Wordsworth ; Mr. John Murray for 
Susan Ferrier ; Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd., for 
Jane Austen, Fanny Kemhle, and Mary Russell Mitford ; 
Sir Isaac Pitman & Sons, Ltd., for Mary Howitt ; Messrs. 
Smith, Elder & Co., for Joanna Baillie and Harriet 
Martineau ; Mr. Alexander Carlyle and Messrs. Long- 
mans, Green & Co., for Jane Welsh Carlyle ; Mr. Clement 
Shorter, for Charlotte Bronte ; Mrs. Janet Ross, for Sarah 
Austin ; Messrs. Sampson Low, Marston & Co., Ltd., 
for Harriet Beecher Stowe ; Messrs. W. Blackwood & 
Sons, for Agnes Strickland ; Messrs. Longmans, Green 
& Co., for Anne Jameson ; Mr. J. W. Cross, for George 
Eliot ; and Mr. William Michael Rossetti for Christina 
Rossetti. 

A. M. I. 

October 1909. 



CONTENTS 



MARGARET PASTON 

Fifteenth-century gossip (i) — A mother's admonitions (3) — Matrimonial 
advice (5). 

ANNE BOLEYN (1502-7-1536) 

A royal love letter (6). 

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS (1542-1587) 

The present (8) — A heavy imprisonment (9) — Feathered friends (12). 

QUEEN ELIZABETH (1533-1603) 

An early love affair (12) — An apology (13) — The Queen's condolences (15) — A 
royal command (16). 

DOROTHY OSBORNE (1627-1695) 

Diary of a day (16) — A love-letter (20). 

LADY RACHEL RUSSELL (1636-1723) 

The evening letter (25) — The son and heir (26). 

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU (1689-1762) 

Visits to the Harem (28) — Dining with the Sultana (35) — The education of 
children (44). 

ESTHER VANHOMRIGH ("VANESSA") (1690-1723) 

Vanessa's love-letters (48). 

A. G. (AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY MAID-SERVANT) 

The Westminster fox (51) — Hot weather recipes (52). 

ELIZABETH MONTAGU (1720-1800) 

Matrimonial prospects (56) — Conversation at Bath (58) — A matrimonial 

homily (59) — A country excursion (62) — Taking the cure (66) — Public 
spectacles (67). 

vii 



viii CONTENTS 

MARY DELANY (1700-1788) 

The coronation (68) — Mr. Pope's accident (71) — Domestic remedies (73) — An 
eighteenth-century garden (73) — The fat of the land (76) — Sedan-chair 
dangers (76) — Early depravity {77) — Current fashions (79) — The whoU 
duty of woman (80). 

ELIZABETH CARTER (1717-1806) 

Rural society (82) — ^'Joseph Andrews" (84) — Swift (84) — French fashions 
(85) — Curious entertainments (86) — A Newgate mob (86) — Words of 
prophecy (89). 

HESTER CHAPONE (1727-1801) 

Richardson and Fielding (90) — Travelling companions (92) — The invitation 
(94)- 

HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI (MRS. THRALE) (1741-1821) 

Feminine blandishments (96) — Human finger-posts (98) — Gossip from Bright- 
helmstone (loi) — An evening at Mrs. Montagu's (105) — Confessions and 
reflections (107). 

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD (1743-1825) 

The new baby (in) — Foreign customs (113) — For and against (115) — A tragedy 
(117). 

CATHERINE CLIVE (1711-1785) 

An appreciation (119) — Player v. Manager (120) — Jealousy (i22)-~Multum 
in parvo (123). 

HANNAH MORE (1745-18313) 

GarricW s funeral (124) — General Paoli (127) — Spiritual privileges in Somersei 
(129). 

ANNA SEWARD (1747-1809) 

Last days of Dr. Johnson (132) — An elegant epistle (133) — An old maid (136). 

FRANCES BURNEY (MADAME D'ARBLAY) (1752-1840) 

Taking tea with Dr. Johnson (139) — Court etiquette (141) — Her Majesty's 
chickens (144) — Dorset loyalty (143) — Fanny Burney's marriage (147) — 
An operation (148). 

LADY HAMILTON (EMMA HART) (1763-1815) 

The Bacchante (132) — A visit to the convent (155) — Nelson at Naples (158)-' 
The last letter (161). 

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) 

Sightseeing during the Revolution (162) — A visit to the Bastille (165). 



CONTENTS ix 

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (GODWIN) (1759-1797) 

The last journey of Louis XVI. (i7o)~Absence {172)— Little Fanny (173)— 
Impressions of Norway (174). 

SARABt SIDDONS (1755-1831) 

Her would-be Biographer (178) — Readings at Windsor Castle (i79)' 

MARIA EDGEW0RT5 (1767-1849) 

A letter of congratulation (x^j,)— Celebrities at Paris (186)— The Baillies' cat 
(189) — Mrs. Siddons's reminiscences (191). 

HARRIET, LADY HESKETH (1733-1807) 

William Coivper (193) — Reading to Cowper (ig6)— Advice to the lean (200). 

SYDNEY OWENSON (LADY MORGAN) (1780-1859) 

The painted pigeon (202) — The ivhiskers (205) — Irish lore {206) — Getting straight 
(207) — Britishers abroad (209) — The Bonaparte family (211) — Impressions 
of St. Peter's (213) — Paganini's love-story (216). 

AMELIA OPIE (1769-1853) 

John Opie's proposal (218) — Opie and his studio (221) — First Consul Buona- 
parte (223). 

LUCY AIKIN (1781-1864) 

Women's rights (229) — Trafalgar (232) — Nelson's funeral (233) — Dining with 
Scott (236) — Bathing at Brighton (239) — Seeing Queen Charlotte (241)— 
The Ettrick Shepherd's debut (243)— Af^s. Piozzi, at. 79 (245)— ^A^ British 
Museum in 1833 (245) — Women and votes (247) — The inequality of man 
(248). 

ANN GODWIN (d. 1809) 

Family news (251) — Sitting under Mr. Sykes (253). 

JANE TAYLOR (1783-1824) 

Time and temperament (256) — The cultured housewife (257^, 

MARY LAMB (1764-1847) 

Mary Lamb's gossip (260) — "Tales from Shakespeare" (264) — Charles Lamb 
and his study (268). 

ANGELICA KAUFFMANN, R.A. (1741-1807) 

Ruins at Tivoli (273) — A holiday letter (274). 

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH (1771-1855) 

Naming the baby (275) — The present of books (278). 

SUSAN FERRIER (1792-1854) 

Town or country (280) — A dog story (282) — The new cook (285) — The choice of 
two evils (287). 

b 



X CONTENTS 

ELIZABETH INCHBALD (1753-1821) 
The fire (289) — A week's dietary (290) — A self-contained fiat (291). 

MARJORY FLEMING (1803-1811) 
A child's correspondence (292). 

JANE AUSTEN (1775-1817) 

"Pride and Prejudice" (294) — Royal appreciation (295). 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD (1787-1855) 

Wordsworth and the simple life (297) — An artist's egotism (299) — Edward 
Irving (301) — A prophecy of fame (303). 

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY (1797-1851) 

Life at Leghorn (305) — The death of Shelley (308). 

LADY ANN BARNARD (1750-1825) 

Auld Robin Gray (314). 

MARY HO WITT (1799-1888) 

Byron's death and funeral (319) — The visit to London (322) — The taste of a 
Quakeress (323) — "Of Many Books" (325) — The reception at the Vatican 
(326). 

LADY CAROLINE LAMB (1785-1828) 

"The Pilgrim of Eternity" (329) — Retrospection (_s3i). 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS (1793-1835) 

Sir Walter Scott (334) — Wordsworth (337) — Paganini (338). 

JOANNA BAILLIE (1762-1851) 

Friendly criticism (343). 

HARRIET MARTINEAU (1802-1876) 

The future of women (345). 

SARA COLERIDGE (1802-1852) 

A mother's portrait (346) — Women and books (349). 

JANE WELSH CARLYLE (1801-1866) 

New fashions (350) — A poet's privileges (351) — The delayed letter (353) — Home 
dressmaking (355). 

COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON (1789-1849) 

Friendship (358). 



CONTENTS xi 

ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL (1810-1885) 

Charlotte Bronte at Haworth (360). 

LUCIE, LADY DUFF-GORDON (1821-1869) 

An Eastern ceremony (363)— Ou illustrating (^65)— English ladies (367) 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE (1816-1855) 

The poet's warning (371)— On her first offer of marriage (373)—" Esmond " 
(373) — ■^ visit to her publisher (375)- 

SARAH AUSTIN (1793-1867) 

Ships at Malta {^8o)~Hot-te;eather attire (383). 

SARAH MARGARET FULLER (MARCHIONESS OSSOLI) (1810-1850) 

Fanny Kemble (385)— To the spirit of the master (387]—^ pen-picture^ of^ 
Carlyle (389) — Carlvle's conversation (393' ^'" ' "^ ""' ' ' 
(398) — The baby (400)—^ farewell (401). 



LADY HESTER STANHOPE (1776-183S) 

A royal visitor (402) — Plain speaking (404). 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE (1811-1896) 

A day's work (405) — Reminiscences (408) — Charles Kingsley at home (411) — 
The glamour of Rome (413) — The beauties of Florida (414). 

AGNES STRICKLAND (1796-1874) 

The drawing-room (417)— /I Scotch wedding (419) — Holiday-making (422) — 
King Edivard VII. {424)— Queen Alexandra (425). 

ANNA JAMESON (1794-1880) 

The tendrils of life (426). 

FANNY KEMBLE (1809-1893) 

Privileges of childhood (429) — A presentation at court (430) — Characteristics of 
Macready (432) — Macready again (434). 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1808-1861) 

On " Aurora Leigh'' (436). 

GEORGE ELIOT (Mary Ann Evans) (1819-1880) 

Spanish scenery (438). 

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894) 

The Dante picture (441) — Swinburne (442). 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Fanny Burney . . . Photogravure Frontispiece 

FAaNG PAGE 

Mary Queen of Scots 8 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu 28 

Hester Lynch Piozzi 96 

Mary Wollstonecraft 170 

Amelia Opie 218 

Jane Welsh Carlyle 350 

Charlotte Bronte ....... 370 

Fanny Kemble 428 



xu 



Women as Letter Writers 



MARGARET PASTON 

" The Paston Letters," so called, is a collection of 
correspondence written between the years 1424 and 1506, 
by a family of that name, belonging to the village of 
Paston in Norfolk. The letters, which are invaluable for 
the light that they shed on domestic affairs of the period, 
were first published by Sir John Fenn in 1787, and have 
since been edited, in a scholarly edition, by Mr. James Gairdner, 
It is an interesting fact that the letters of Margaret Paston 
are among the best in the collection. The letters printed 
below are from the selection of the correspondence edited 
by A. Ramsay, who modernised the spelling. 



To my right worshipful husband, John Paston, be this 
delivered in haste 

Norwich, Thursday, July i, 145 1. 

FIFTEENTH-CENTURY GOSSIP 

Right Worshipful Husband — I recommend me to 
you, desiring heartily to hear of your welfare. ... I was 
at Topps' at dinner on St. Peter's day : there my 

I 



2 MARGARET PASTON 

Lady Felbrigg and other gentlewomen desired to have 
had you there ; they said they should all have been 
the merrier if ye had been there. My cousin Topps 
hath much care till she hears good tidings of her brother's 
matter ; she told me that they should keep a day on 
Monday next coming betwixt her brother and Sir 
Andrew Hugard and Wyndham. I pray you send 
me word how they speed, and how ye speed in your 
own matters also. 

Also, I pray you heartily that ye will send me a 
pot with treacle in haste, for I have been right evil 
at ease and your daughter both since that ye yeden 
[went] hence, and one of the tallest young men of this 
parish lyeth sick, and hath a great myrr [murrain ?] 
how he shall do God knoweth. 

I have sent my Uncle Berney the pot with treacle 
that ye did buy for him ; mine aunt recommendeth 
her to you, and prayeth you to do for her as the bill 
maketh mention of that I send you with this letter, 
and as ye think best for to do therein. Sir Harry 
Inglos is passed to God this night, whose soul God 
assoil ; and was carried forth this day at nine of the 
clock to St. Faith's, and there shall be buried. 

If ye desire to buy any of his stuff, I pray you send 
me word thereof in haste, and I shall speak to Robert 
Inglos and to Wickingham thereof : I suppose they 
may be executors. The blessed Trinity have you in 
His keeping. Written at Norwich in haste on the 
Thursday next after St. Peter. 

I pray you trust not to the sheriff for no fair 
language. 

Yours, 
Margaret Paston. 



FIFTEENTH-CENTURY GOSSIP 3 

To my well-beloved son, Sir John Paston, he this delivered 
in haste 

Caister, Tuesday, November, between 1463 and 1466. 
A mother's admonitions 

I greet you well, and send you God's blessing and 
mine, letting you weet that I have received a letter 
from you, the which he delivered to Master Roger at 
Lynn, whereby I conceive that ye think ye did not 
well that ye departed hence without my knowledge, 
wherefore I let you weet I was right evil paid with 
you ; your father thought and thinketh yet, that I 
was assented to your departing, and that hath caused 
me to have great heaviness ; I hope he will be your 
good father hereafter if ye demean you well, and do 
as ye ought to do to him ; and I charge you upon my 
blessing that in anything touching your father that 
should be [to] his worship, profit or avail, that ye do 
your devoir and diligent labour to the furtherance 
therein as ye will have my good will, and that shall 
cause your father to be better father to you. 

It was told me ye sent him a letter to London ; what 
the intent thereof was I wot not ; but though he take 
it but lightly, I would ye should not spare to write 
to him again as lowly as ye can, beseeching him to be 
your good father ; and send him such tidings as be 
in the country there ye beeth, and that ye ware [guard] 
of your expenses better and [than] ye have been before 
this time, and be your own purse-bearer ; I trow ye 
shall find it most profitable to you. 

I would ye should send me word how ye do, and 



4 MARGARET PASTON 

how ye have shifted for yourself since ye departed 
hence, by some trusty man, and that your father have 
no knowledge thereof ; I durst not let him know of 
the last letter that ye wrote to me, because he was 
so sore displeased with me at that time. 

Item, I would ye should speak with Wykes, and 
know his disposition to Jane Walsham ; she hath said 
since he departed hence but [unless] she might have 
him she would never [be] married, her heart is sore 
set on him ; she told me that he said to her that there 
was no woman in the world he loved so well ; I would 
not he should jape [deceive] her, for she meaneth good 
faith ; and if he will not have her let me weet in haste, 
for I shall purvey for her in otherwise. ... I sent your 
gray horse to Ruston to the farrier, and he saith he 
shall never be nought to ride, neither right good to 
plough nor to cast; he said he was splayed, and his 
shoulder rent from the body. I wot not what to do 
with him. 

Your grandam would fain hear some tidings from 
you ; it were well done that ye sent a letter to her 
how ye do as hastily as ye may, and God have you 
in His keeping, and make you a good man, and give 
you grace to do well as I would ye should do. 

Written at Caister, the Tuesday next before Saint 
Edmund the King. 

Your mother, 

Margaret Paston. 

I would ye should make much of the parson of Filley, 
the bearer hereof, and make him good cheer if ye 
may. 



SIR JOHN PASTON'S ENGAGEMENT 5 

Margaret Paston to Sir John Fasten 

Norwich, Monday, April 3, 1469. 
MATRIMONIAL ADVICE 

I greet you well, and send you God's blessing and 
mine, thanking you for my seal that ye sent me, but 
I am right sorry that ye did so great cost thereupon, for 
one of forty pence should have served m.e right well ; 
send me word what it cost you and I shall send you 
money therefor. I sent you a letter by a man of Yar- 
mouth ; send me word if ye have it, for I marvel ye 
sent me none answer thereof by Juddy. 

I have none very [certain or true] knowledge of your 
insurance [engageinenf], but if ye be insured, I pray 
God send you joy and worship together, and so I trust 
ye shall have if it be as it is reported of her ; and anemps 
[before] God ye are as greatly bound to her as ye were 
married, and therefore I charge you upon my blessing 
that ye be as true to her as she were married unto 
you in all degrees, and ye shall have the more grace 
and the better speed in all other things. 

Also I would that ye should not be too hasty to be 
married till ye were sure of your livelihood, for ye must 
remember what charge ye shall have, and if ye have not 
to maintain it it will be a great rebuke ; and therefore 
labour that ye may have releases of the lands and be in 
more surety of your land or than [before] ye be married. 

The Duchess of Suffolk is at Ewelm, in Oxfordshire, 
and it is thought by your friends here, that it is done 
that she might be far and out of the way, and the rather 
feign excuse because of age or sickness if that the king 
would send for her for your matters . . . Also I would 
that ye should purvey for your sister to be with my 



6 MARGARET PASTON 

Lady of Oxford or with my Lady of Bedford, or in some 
other worshipful place whereas ye think best, and I will 
help to her finding, for we be either of us weary of other. 
I shall tell you more when I speak with you. . . . 

Item, I send you the ouch [a collar of gold] with 
the diamond, by the bearer hereof. I pray you forget 
not to send me a kersche of cr'melle [a kerchief of 
worsted] for neckerchiefs for your sister Anne, for I am 
schent [blamed] of the good lady that she is with because 
she hath none, and I can none get in all this town. 

I should write more to you but for lack of leisure ; 
God have you in His keeping, and send you good speed 
in all your matters. Written in haste on Easter Monday. 

By your mother, 

Margaret Paston. 

ANNE BOLEYN (1502-7-1536) 

SECOND wife of Henry VIII., was the daughter of Sir Thomas 
Boleyn, afterwards Viscount Rochford and Earl of Wiltshire. 
Shortly after the King had sought for a divorce from 
Catherine of Aragon in 1527 he began to pay his addresses to 
Anne Boleyn, and was secretly married to her in January 
1533. She was crowned at Westminster Hall on Whit Sunday 
of that year. In September 1533 she gave birth to the 
Princess Elizabeth; and in May 1536 she was tried and 
found guilty on a charge of high treason, and beheaded on 
Tower Green a few days later. 

Anne Boleyn to Henry VIII 

A ROYAL LOVE LETTER 

[? 1527.] 

Sire, — It belongs only to the august mind of a great 
King, to whom Nature has given a heart full of generosity 



A MAID OF HONOUR 7 

towards the sex, to repay by favours so extraordinary 
an artless and short conversation with a girl. In- 
exhaustible as is the treasury of your Majesty's bounties, 
I pray you to consider that it cannot be sufficient to 
your generosity ; for if you recompense so slight a 
conversation by gifts so great, what will you be able to 
do for those who are ready to consecrate their entire 
obedience to your desires ? How great soever may be 
the bounties I have received, the joy that I feel in being 
loved by a King whom I adore, and to whom I would 
with pleasure make a sacrifice of my heart, if fortune 
had rendered it worthy of being offered to him, will ever 
be infinitely greater. 

The warrant of Maid of Honour to the Queen induces 
me to think that your Majesty has some regard for me, 
since it gives me the means of seeing you oftener and 
of assuring you by my own lips (which I shall do on the 
first opportunity), that I am. 

Your Majesty's very obliged and very obedient 
servant, without any reserve, 

Anne Boleyn. 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS (1542-1587) 

IF not actually born a queen, was near being so, as she 
succeeded her father, James V., before she was a week old. 
At the age of six, in 1548, Mary left Scotland for France, 
and was affianced to the eldest son of Henry II. and Catherine 
d' Medici. For ten years she remained at the French Court, 
and was married in 1558 to the Dauphin, who succeeded to 
the throne in the following year as Francis II., and died 
in 1560. Mary returned to Scotland in 1561, and in 1565 
she made an unhappy marriage with her cousin, Henry 



8 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 

Stewart, Lord Damley. His sudden death in February 1567 
was attributed to the Earl of Bothwell, whom the Queen 
had favoured recently, and three months later she married 
him. This unpopular step lost her the support of her nobles, 
who took arms against her ; with the defeat of her forces, 
she surrendered, and later abdicated in favour of her son, 
James VI, She made a last attempt to regain her lost 
throne with an army of 6,000 men, but was again defeated, 
when she sought the help of Queen Elizabeth, who imprisoned 
her for the rest of her life. Mary soon became the centre 
of a series of plots against Elizabeth's life, and on the dis- 
covery of certain letters in which the Scottish Queen signified 
approval of the assassination of Elizabeth, Mary was tried 
and sentenced in 1568, but her execution did not take place 
until 1587. 



Mary Queen of Scots to her godchild, Elizabeth Pierrepont 

THE PRESENT 

Darling, — I have received your letter and good 
tokens, for which I thank you. I am very glad you 
are so well. Remain with your mother and father 
this season, if willing to keep you, for the air and the 
weather are so trying here that I already begin to 
feel the change of the temperature from that of Worssop, 
where I did not walk much, not being allowed the 
command of my legs. Commend me to your father 
and mother very affectionately ; also to your sister, 
and all I know, and to all who know me there. I have 
had your black silk robe made, and it shall be sent 
to you as soon as I receive the trimming, for which I 
wrote to London. This is all I can write to you now, 
except to send you as many blessings as there are 




MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 
From a miniature by Fraiifois Clone/ al Windsor Castle. 



p. 8] 



QUEEN MARY'S PETITION 9 

days in the year ; praying God to extend His arm over 
you and yours for ever. 

In haste this 13th of September. Your very affec- 
tionate mistress, and best friend, 

Marie R. 

Endorsed — " To my well-beloved bedfellow, Bess 
Pierrepont." 



Mary Queen of Scots to Queen Elizabeth 

A HEAVY IMPRISONMENT 

Bolton Castle, January 22, 1569. 

Madam my good Sister, — I know not what occasion 
I can have given to any of this company, or at least 
of your kingdom, that they should endeavour to per- 
suade you (as it appears to me, by your letter) of a 
thing so distant from my thoughts, w^hereof my conduct 
has borne witness. Madam, I came to you in my trouble 
for succour and support on the faith of the assurance 
that I might reckon upon you for every assistance in 
my necessity ; and, for this reason, I refrained from 
applying for any other aid to friends, relatives, and 
ancient allies, relying solely upon your promised 
favour. I have never attempted, either by word or 
deed, ought to the contrary, and nobody can lay to 
my charge anything against you. Still, to my unspeak- 
able regret, I see my actions falsely represented and 
construed ; but I hope that God with time, the Father 
of Truth, will declare otherwise, and prove to you the 
sincerity of my intentions towards you. 

In the meantime I am treated so rigorously that 



lo MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 

I cannot comprehend whence proceeds the extreme 
indignation, which this demonstrates, that you have 
conceived against me, in return for the confidence which 
I have placed in you, in preference to all other princes, 
and the desire I have shewn to obtain your favour. 
I cannot but deplore my evil fortune, seeing you have 
been pleased not only to refuse me your presence, 
causing me to be declared unworthy of it by your 
nobles, but also suffered me to be torn in pieces by my 
rebels ; without even making them answer to that 
which I had alleged against them ; not allowing me 
to have copies of their false accusations ^ or affording 
me any liberty to accuse them. You have also 
permitted them to retire, Avith a decree, in a manner 
absolving and strengthening them in this usurped 
so-called regency, and have thrown the blame upon 
me, and covertly condemned me without giving me a 
hearing, detained my ministers, caused me to be removed 
by force, without informing me what has been resolved 
upon respecting my affairs ; why I am to be transferred 
to another abode ; how long I am to remain there ; 
or for what reason I am confined, and all support and 
my requests refused. 

All these things, along with other petty annoyances, 
such as not permitting me to receive news from my 
relatives in France, nor from my servants on my private 
necessities, having in like manner anew interdicted 
all communication with Scotland, nay, refused me 
leave to give any commission to one of my servants, 
or to send my letters by them, grieve me so sorely and 
make me, to tell you the truth, so timid and irresolute 
that I am at a loss how to act, nor can I resolve upon 
1 The contents of the silver-gilt casket. 



QUEEN MARY'S PETITION ii 

obeying so sudden an order to depart, without first 
receiving some news from my commissioners, not that 
this place is a whit more agreeable than any other 
which you may be pleased to assign, when you have 
made me acquainted with your good-will towards 
me, and on what conditions. 

Wherefore, Madam, I entreat you not to think that 
I mean any offence, but a natural care which I owe to 
myself and my people, to wish to know the end before 
disposing of myself so lightly, I mean voluntarily ; 
for I am in your power, and you can, in spite of me, 
command even the lowest of your subjects to sacrifice 
me, without my being able to do anything but appeal 
to God and you, for other support I have none ; an<?, 
thank God, I am not so silly as to suppose that any 
of your subjects concern themselves about the affairs 
of a poor, forlorn, foreign princess, who, next to God, 
seeks your aid alone, and if my adversaries tell you 
anything to the contrary, they are false and deceive 
you ; for I honour you as my elder sister, and, not- 
withstanding all the grievances above mentioned, I 
shall be every ready to solicit, as of my elder sister, 
your friendship before that of any other. Would to 
God you would grant it me, and treat me as I should 
wish to deserve in your place ! When this shall come 
to pass, I shall be happy ; if not, God grant me patience, 
and you His grace ! And here I will humbly recom- 
mend myself to yours, praying God to grant you, madam, 
health and a long and happy life. 

From Bolton, this xxii of January, 
Your very affectionate good sister and cousin, 

Mary R. 



12 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 

Mary Queen of Scots to the Archbishop of Glasgow 

FEATHERED FRIENDS 

From Sheffield, July 9, 1574. 
Monsieur de Glasgow, — I have nothing particular 
to say at present, except that, thank God, I am in 
better health than I was before using the baths, and 
when I last wrote to you. I beg you will procure for 
me some turtle-doves, and some Barbary fowls. I 
wish to try if I can rear them in this country, as your 
brother told me that, when he was with you, he had 
raised some in a cage, as also some red partridges ; 
and send me, by the person who brings them to London, 
instructions how to manage them. I shall take great 
pleasure in rearing them in cages, which I do all sorts 
of little birds I can meet with. This will be amusement 
for a prisoner, particularly since there are none in this 
country, as I wrote to you not long ago. Pray see 
to it that my directions be complied with, and I will 
pray God to have you in His keeping. 

Your very good mistress and friend, 

Mary R. 

QUEEN ELIZABETH (1533-1603) 

WAS the daughter of Henry VIII. by his second wife, Anne 
Boleyn. The second letter printed here was -vv^ritten a fort- 
night after the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, when 
Elizabeth was fifty- three, and James VI. twenty. 

Princess Elizabeth to Lord Admiral Seymour 

AN EARLY LOVE AFFAIR 

February 27, 1547. 
My Lord Admiral, — The letter you have written to 
me is the most obliging, and, at the same time, the most 



QUEEN ELIZABETH'S LOVE-LETTER 13 

eloquent in the world. And as I do not feel myself 
competent to reply to so many courteous expressions, I 
shall content myself with unfolding to you, in few words, 
my real sentiments. I confess to you that your letter, 
all eloquent as it is, has very much surprised me ; for, 
besides that neither my age nor my inclination allows 
me to think of marriage, I never could have believed 
that any one would have spoken to me of nuptials at a 
time when I ought to think of nothing but sorrow for 
the death of my father. And to him I owe so much, 
that I must have two years at least to mourn for his loss. 
And how can I make up my mind to become a wife 
before I shall have enjoyed for some years my virgin 
state, and arrived at years of discretion ? 

Permit me, then, my Lord Admiral, to tell you frankly, 
that as there is no one in the world who more esteems 
your merit than myself, or who sees you with more 
pleasure as a disinterested person, so would I preserve 
to myself the privilege of recognising you as such, 
without entering into that strict bond of matrimony, 
which often causes one to forget the possession of true 
merit. Let your highness be well persuaded that though 
I decline the happiness of becoming your wife I shall 
never cease to interest myself in all that can crown 
your merit with glory, and shall ever feel the greatest 
pleasure in being your servant and good friend. 

Elizabeth. 

Queen Elizabeth to King James VI. 

AN APOLOGY 

February 14, 1586-7. 

My DEAR Brother, — I would you knew (though not 

felt) the extreme dolour that overwhelms my mind 



14 QUEEN ELIZABETH 

for that miserable accident ^ which, far contrary to my 
meaning, hath befallen. I have now sent this kinsman 
of mine, whom, ere now, it hath pleased you to favour, 
to instruct you truly of that which is irksome for my 
pen to tell you. I beseech you, that as God and many 
[more] know how innocent I am in this case, so you will 
believe that, if I had hid aught, I would have abided 
by it. I am not so base-minded that the fear of any 
living creature or prince should make me afraid to 
do that were just, or, when done, to deny the same. 
I am not of so base a lineage, nor carry so vile a mind. 
But as not to disguise fits not the mind of a king, 2 so 
will I never dissemble my actions, but cause them to 
show even as I meant them. Thus assuring yourself 
of me, that as I know this was deserved, yet, if I had 
meant it, I would never lay it on others' shoulders, 
no more will I not^ damnify myself that thought it 
not. 

The circumstances it may please you to have [learn] 
of this bearer (Robert Carey), and for your part, think 
not you have in the world a more loving kinswoman 
nor a more dear friend than myself, nor any that will 
watch more carefully to preserve you and your state. 
And who shall otherwise persuade you, judge them 
more partial to others than to you. And thus, in 
haste, I leave to trouble you, beseeching God to send 
you a long reign. 

Your most assured loving sister and cousin, 

Elizabeth R. 

1 Cutting off the head of his mother. 

2 She uses a double negative. Evidently should read : " That 
disguise fits not the mind of a king." 

3 Again a double negative contradicts her own meaning. 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS' DEATH 15 

Queen^EUzaheth to LadylNorris 

THE queen's condolences 

Mine own dear Crow, — Although we have deferred 
long to represent unto you our grieved thoughts, because 
we liked full ill to yield you the first reflections of our 
misfortunes, whom we have always sought to cherish 
and comfort, yet knowing now that necessity must 
bring it to your ears, and nature consequently must 
raise many passionate workings in your heart, we 
have resolved no longer to smother either our care 
for your sorrow, or the sympathy of our grief for his 
death ; wherein, if society in sorrowing work any 
diminution, we do assure you, by this true messenger 
of our mind, that nature can have stirred no more 
dolorous affection in you as a mother for a dear son 
than the grateful memory of his services past hath 
wrought in us, his sovereign, apprehension of the miss 
of so worthy a servant. 

But now that nature's common work is done, and 
he that was born to die hath paid his tribute, let that 
Christian discretion stay the flow of your immoderate 
grieving, which hath instructed you, both by example 
and knowledge, that nothing of this kind hath happened 
but by God's providence, and that these lines from 
your loving and gracious sovereign serve to assure 
you that there shall ever remain the lively character 
of you and yours that are left, in valuing rightly all 
their faithful and honest endeavours. 

More at this time I will not write of this unsilent 
subject, but have despatched this gentleman to visit 
both your lord, and to condole with you in the true 
sense of our love, and to pray you that the world may 



i6 QUEEN ELIZABETH 

see, that what time cureth in weak minds, that dis- 
cretion and moderation help you in this accident, 
where there is so opportune occasion to demonstrate 
true patience and moderation. 

Queen Elizabeth to Dr. Cox, Bishop of Ely 

A ROYAL COMMAND 

Proud Prelate, — You know what you were before 
I made you what you are now. If you do not im- 
mediately comply with my request, I will unfrock you, 
by G— ! 

Elizabeth. 

DOROTHY OSBORNE (1627-1695) 

WAS the daughter of Sir Peter Osborne. She was courted 
by Sir William, the eldest son of Sir John Temple, who sat 
in the Long Parliament, but the match was disapproved of 
by her father, an ardent Royalist. Although separated 
for seven years, the lovers, however, were constant to one 
another, as Dorothy Osborne's letters testify. They were 
at length married in 1655. Judge Parry has edited a valuable 
edition of her letters, from which he has kindly allowed the 
following to be reprinted : — 

Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple 

dl\ry of a day 

[1652-1654] 
Sir, — I have been reckoning up how many faults 
you lay to my charge in your last letter, and I find 
I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and unkind. Oh me, 
how should one do to mend all these ! 'Tis work for 
an age, and 'tis to be feared I shall be so old before 



A DREAM 17 

I am good, that 'twill not be considerable to anybody 
but myself whether I am so or not. I say nothing of 
the pretty humour you fancied me in, in your dream, 
because 'twas a dream. Sure if it had been anything 
else, I should have remembered that my Lord L. loves 
to have his chamber to himself ! But seriously, now, 
I wonder at your patience. How could you hear me 
talk so senselessly, though 'twere but in your sleep, 
and not be ready to beat me ! Well, dreams are pleasant 
things to people whose humours are so ; but to have 
the spleen and to dream upon't, is a punishment I 
would not wish my greatest enemy ! I seldom dream, 
or never remember them, unless they have been so 
*■ sad as to put me into such disorder as I can hardly 
recover when I am awake, and some of those I am 
confident I shall never forget. 

You ask me how^ I pass my time here. I can give you 
a perfect account not only of what I do for the present, 
but what I am likely to do this seven year if I stay 
here so long. I rise in the morning reasonably early, 
and before I am ready I go round the house till I am 
weary of that, and then into the garden till it grows 
too hot for me. About ten o'clock I think of making 
me ready, and when that's done I go into my father's 
chamber, from thence to dinner, where my cousin 
Molle and I sit in great state, in a room, and at a table 
that would hold a great many more. After dinner 
we sit and talk till Mr. B. comes in question, and then 
I am gone. The heat of the day is spent in reading 
and working, and about six or seven o'clock I walk 
out into a common that lies hard by the house, where 
a great many wenches keep sheep and cows, and sit in 
the shade singing of ballads. I go to them and compare 

2 



1 8 DOROTHY OSBORNE 

their voices and beauties to some ancient shepherdesses 
that I have read of, and find a vast difference there ; 
but, trust me, these are as innocent as those could be. 
I talk to them, " and find they want nothing to make 
them the happiest people in the world, but the know- 
ledge that they are so." Most commonly when we are 
in the midst of our discourse, one looks about her, 
and spies her cows going into the corn, and then away 
they all run as if they had wings at their heels. I, 
that am not so nimble, stay behind ; and when I see 
them driving home their cattle, I think 'tis time for 
me to retire too. When I have supped, I go into the 
garden, and so to the side of a small river that runs 
by it, where I sit down and wish you with me (you 
had best say this is not kind neither). In earnest, 
'tis a pleasant place, and would be much more so to me 
if I had your company. I sit there sometimes till I 
am lost with thinking ; and were it not for some cruel 
thoughts of the crossness of our fortunes that will 
not let me sleep there, I should forget that there were 
such a thing to be done as going to bed. 

Since I writ this my company is increased by two, 
my brother Harry and a fair niece, the eldest of my 
brother Peyton's daughters. She is so much a woman, 
that I am almost ashamed to say I am her aunt ; and 
so pretty, that, if I had any design to gain of servant, 
I should like her company ; but I have none, and 
therefore .shall endeavour to keep her here as long as 
I can persuade her father to spare her, for she will 
easily consent to it, having so much of my humour 
(though it be the worst thing in her) as to like a melan- 
choly place and little company. My brother John 
is not come down again, nor am I certain when he will 



THE CROSSNESS OF FORTUNE 19 

be here. He went from London into Gloucestershire 
to m}^ sister, who was very ill, and his youngest girl, 
of which he was very fond, is since dead. But I believe 
by the time his wife has a little recovered her sickness 
and the loss of her child, he will be coming this way. 
My father is reasonably well, but keeps his chamber 
still, and will hardly, I am afraid, ever be so perfectly 
recovered as to come abroad again. 

I am sorry for poor Walter ; but you need not doubt 
of what he has of yours in his hands, for it seems 
he does not use to do his work himself. I speak seriously ; 
he keeps a Frenchman that sets all his seals and rings. 
H what you say of my Lady Leppington be of your 
own knowledge, I shall believe you, but otherwise 
I can assure you I have heard from people that pretend 
to know her very well, that her kindness to Compton 
was very moderate, and that she never liked him so 
well as when he died and gave her his estate. But 
they might be deceived, and 'tis not so strange as that 
you should imagine a coldness and an indifference in 
my letters, when I so little meant it ; but I am not 
displeased you should desire my kindness enough to 
apprehend the loss of it when it is safest. Only I 
would not have you apprehend it so far as to believe 
it possible — that were an injury to all the assurances 
that I have given you, and if you love me you cannot 
think me unworthy. I should think myself so, if I 
found you grew indifferent to me, that I have had so 
long and so particular a friendship for ; but, sure, 
this is more than I need to say. You are enough in 
my heart to know all my thoughts, and if so, you know 
better than I can tell you how much I am 

Yours. 



20 DOROTHY OSBORNE 

Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple 

A LOVE-LETTER 

[1652-1654.] 

'Tis well you have given me your reproaches ; I 
can allow you to tell me of my faults kindly and like 
a friend. Possibly it is a weakness in me to aim at 
the world's esteem, as if I could not be happy without 
it ; but there are certain things that custom has made 
almost of absolute necessity, and reputation I take to 
be one of these. If one could be invisible I should 
choose that ; but since all people are seen and known, 
and shall be talked of in spite of their teeth, who is 
that does not desire, at least, that nothing of ill may 
be said of them whether justly or otherwise ? I never 
knew any one so satisfied with their own innocence 
as to be content the world should think them guilty. 
Some out of pride have seemed to contemn ill reports 
when they have found they could not avoid them, 
but none out of strength of reason, though many have 
pretended to it. No, not my Lady Newcastle with 
all her philosophy, therefore you must not expect it 
from me. I shall never be ashamed to own that I 
have a particular value for you above any other, but 
'tis not the greatest merit of person will excuse a want 
of fortune ; in some degrees I think it will, at least 
with the most rational part of the world, and, as far as 
that will read, I desire it should. I would not have 
the world believe I married out of interest and to please 
my friends ; I had much rather they should know I 
chose the person, and took his fortune, because 'twas 
necessary, and that I prefer a competency with one 
I esteem infinitely before a vast estate in other hands. 
'Tis much easier, sure, to get a good fortune than a 



BROTHER AND SISTER 21 

good husband ; but whosoever marries without any 
consideration of fortune shall never be allo\ved to do 
it out of so reasonable an apprehension : the whole 
world (without any reserve) shall pronounce they did 
it merely to satisfy their giddy humour. 

Besides, though you imagine 'twere a great argument 
of my kindness to consider nothing but you, in earnest 
I believe 'twould be an injury to you. I do not see 
that it puts any value upon men when women marry 
them for love (as they term it) ; 'tis not their merit, 
but our folly, that is always presumed to cause it ; 
and would it be any advantage to you to have your 
wife thought an indiscreet person ? All this I can say 
to you ; but when my brother disputes it with me 
I have other arguments for him, and I drove him up 
so close t'other night that, for want of a better gap 
to get out at, he was fain to say that he feared as much 
your having a fortune as you having none, for he saw 

you held my Lord L 's principles, that religion or 

honour were things you did not consider at all, and 
that he was confident you would take any engagement, 
serve in any employment, or do anything to advance 
yourself. I had no patience for this. To say you 
were a beggar, j-^our father not worth £4,000 in the 
whole world, was nothing in comparison of having no 
religion or no honour. I forgot all my disguise, and 
we talked ourselves weary ; he renounced me again, 
and I defied him, but both in as civil language as it 
would permit, and parted in great anger with the usual 
ceremony of a leg and a courtesy, that you would have 
died with laughing to have seen us. 

The next day, I, not being at dinner, saw him not 
till night, then he came into my chamber, where I supped 



22 DOROTHY OSBORNE 

but he did not. Afterwards Mr. Gibson and he and 
I talked of indifferent things till all but we two went 
to bed. Then he sat half an hour and said not one 
word, nor I to him. At last in a pitiful tone, " Sister," 
says he, "I have heard you say that when anything 
troubles you, of all things you apprehend going to 
bed, because there it increases upon you, and you lie 
at the mercy of all your sad thoughts, which the silence 
and darkness of the night adds a horror to. I am at 
that pass now ; I vow to God I would not endure another 
night like the last to gain a crown." I, who resolved 
to take no notice what ailed him, said 'twas a knowledge 
I had raised from my spleen only, and so fell into a 
discourse of melancholy and the causes, and from 
that (I know not how) into religion ; and we talked 
so long of it, and so devoutly that it laid all our anger. 
We grew to a calm and peace with all the world ; two 
hermits conversing in a cell they equally inhabit never 
expressed more humble, charitable kindness, one 
towards another, than we. He asked my pardon, 
and I his, and he has promised me never to speak of 
it whilst he lives, but leave the event to God Almighty ; 
and till he sees it done, he will be always the same 
to me that he is ; then he shall leave me, he says, not 
out of want of kindness to me, but because he cannot 
see the ruin of a person that he loves so passionately, 
and in whose happiness he has laid up all his. These 
are the terms we are at, and I am confident he will keep 
his word with me, so that you have no reason to fear him 
in any respect ; for though he should break his promise, 
he should never make me break mine. No, let me assure 
you, this rival, nor any other, shall ever alter me, there- 
fore spare your jealousy, or turn it all into kindness. 



LOVE-TOKENS 23 

I will write every week, and no miss of letters shall 
give us any doubts of one another. Time nor accidents 
shall not prevail upon our hearts, and, if God Almighty 
please to bless us, we will meet the same we are, or 
happier. I will do as you bid me. I will pray, and 
wish, and hope, but you must do so too, then, and be 
so careful of yourself that I may have nothing to reproach 
you with when you come back. 

That vile wench lets you see all my scribbles, I believe ; 
how do you know I took care your hair should not 
be spoiled ? 'Tis more than e'er you did. I think you 
are so negligent on't, and keep it so ill, 'tis pity you 
should have it. May you have better luck in the 
cutting of it than I had with mine. I cut it two or 
three years agone, and it never grew since. Look to 
it ; if I keep the lock you give me better than you 
do all the rest, I shall not spare you ; expect to be 
soundly chidden. What do you mean to do with all 
my letters ? Leave them behind you ? If you do 
it must be in safe hands : some of them concern you, 
and me, and other people besides us very much, and 
they will almost load a horse to carry. 

Do not my cousins at M P mistrust us a 

little ? I have great belief they do. I'm sure Robin C. told 
my brother of it since I was last in town. Of all things, 
I admire my cousin Molle has not got it by the end, 
he that frequents that family so much, and is at this 
instant at Kimbolton. If he has, and conceals it, 
he is very discreet ; I could never discern by anything 
that he knew it. I shall endeavour to accustom myself 
to the noise on't, and make it as easy to me as I can, 
though I had much rather it were not talked of till 
there were an absolute necessity of discovering it ; 



24 DOROTHY OSBORNE 

and you can oblige me in nothing more than in con- 
ceaHng it. I take it very kindly that you promise to 
use all your interest in your f[ather] to persuade him 
to endeavour our happiness, and he appears so con- 
fident of his power that it gives me great hopes. 

Dear, shall we ever be so happy, think you ? Ah ! 
I dare not hope it. Yes, 'tis not want of love gives 
me these fears. No, in earnest, I think (nay, I am 
sure) I love you more than ever, and 'tis that only 
gives me these despairing thoughts ; when I consider 
how small a proportion of happiness is allowed in this 
world, and how great mine would be in a person for 
whom I have a passionate kindness, and who has the 
same for me. As it is infinitely above what I can deserve 
and more than God Almighty usually allots to the best 
people, I can find nothing in reason but seems to be 
against me ; and, methinks, 'tis as vain in me to expect 
it as 'twould be to hope I might be a queen (if that 
were really as desirable a thing as 'tis thought to be) ; 
and it is just it should be so. 

We complain of this world, and the variety of crosses 
and afflictions it abounds in ; and yet for all this who 
is weary on't (more than in discourse) ? who thinks 
with pleasure of leaving it, or preparing for the next ? 
We see old folks, that have outlived all the comforts 
of life, desire to continue it, and nothing can wean 
us from the folly of preferring a mortal being, subject 
to great infirmity and unavoidable decays, before an 
immortal one, and all the glories that are promised 
with it. Is not this very like preaching ? Well, 'tis 
too good for you ; you shall have no more on't. I 
am afraid you are not mortified enough for such dis- 
courses to work upon (though I am not of my brother's 



LOVE AND HAPPINESS 25 

opinion neither, that you have no religion in you). 
In earnest, I never took anything he ever said half so 
ill, as nothing, sure, is so great an injury. It must 
suppose one to be a devil in human shape. Oh me ! 
Now I am speaking of religion, let me ask you, is not 
his name Bagshaw that you say rails on love and 
women ? Because I heard one t'other day speaking 
of him, and commending his wit, but withal said he 
was a perfect atheist. If so, I can allow him to hate 
us, and Love, which, sure, has something of divine 
in it, since God requires it of us. I am coming into 
my preaching vein again. What think you, were it not 
a good way of preferment, as the times are ? If you 
advise me to it I'll venture. The woman at Somerset 
House was cried up mightily. Think on't. 

Dear, I am yours. 



LADY RACHEL RUSSELL (1636-1723) 

Lady Rachel Wriothesley was the second daughter 
and co-heiress of the Earl of Southampton. She married, 
in 1669, William, Lord Russell, who was arrested on a charge 
of high treason for participation in the Rye House Plot, 
and was found guilty and beheaded on July 21, 1683. Lady 
Russell, who appeared in court at her husband's trial as 
his secretary, has testified in her well-known letters to 
the honour and worth of his character. 

Lady Rachael Russell to Lord Russell 

THE EVENING LETTER 

TuNBRiDGE Wells, 1678. 
After a toilsome day, there is some refreshment to 
be telling our story to our best friends. I have seen 



26 LADY RACHEL RUSSELL 

your girl well laid in bed, and ourselves have made 
our suppers upon biscuits, a bottle of white wine, and 
another of beer, mingled my uncle's whey with nutmeg 
and sugar. None are disposing to bed, not so much 
as complaining of weariness. Beds and things are all 
very well here ; our want is, yourself and good weather. 
But now I have told you our present condition; to 
say a little of the past. I do really think, if I could 
have imagined the illness of the journey, it would have 
discouraged me ; it is not to be expressed how bad 
the way is from Sevenoaks ; but our horses did ex- 
ceeding well, and Spencer, very diligent, often off 
his horse, to lay hold of the coach. I have not much 
more to say this night : I hope the quilt is remembered ; 
and Frances must remember to send more biscuits 
either when you come, or soon after. I long to hear 
from you, my dearest soul, and truly think your absence 
already an age. I have no mind to my gold plate : 
here is no table to set it on ; but if that does not come 
I desire you would bid Betty Foster send the silver 
glass I use every day. In discretion I haste to bed, 
longing for Monday, I assure you. 

From your 

R. Russell. 



Lady Rachel Russell to Lord Russell. 

THE SON AND HEIR 

Stratton, September 20, 1681. 
To see anybody preparing, and taking their way 
to see what I long to do a thousand times more than 
they, makes me not endure to suffer their going, without 



SACK POSSET 27 

saying something to my best life ; though it is a kind 
of anticipating my joy when we shall meet, to allow 
myself so much before the time ; but I confess I feel 
a great deal that, though I left London with great 
reluctance (as it is easy to persuade men a woman 
does), yet that I am not like to leave Stratton with 
greater. They will tell you how well I got hither 
and how well I found our dear treasure here : your 
boy will please you ; you will, I think, find him im- 
proved, though I tell you so beforehand. They fancy 
he wanted you ; for, as soon as I alighted, he followed, 
calling Papa ; but I suppose it is the word he has 
most command of, so was not disobliged by the little 
fellow. The girls were fine in remembrance of the 
happy 29th of September ; and we drank your health, 
after a reindeer pie ; and at night your girls and I supped 
on a sack posset : nay, Master ^ would have his room, 
and for haste burnt his fingers in the posset ; but 
he does but rub his hands for it. It is the most glorious 
weather here that ever was seen. The coach shall 
meet you at the cabbage garden : be there by eight 
o'clock or a little after ; though I guess you can hardly 
be there so soon, day breaks so late ; and indeed the 
mornings are so misty, it is not wholesome to be in 
the air so early. I do propose going to my neighbour 
Worsley to-day. I would fain be telling my heart 
more things — anything to be in a kind of talk with 
him ; but, I believe, Spencer stays for my despatch : 
he was willing to go early ; but this was to be the 
delight of this morning, and the support of the day. 
It is performed in bed, thy pillow at my back, where 
thy dear head shall lie, I hope, to-morrow night, and 
1 Her son. 



28 lADY RACHEL RUSSELL 

many more, I trust in His mercy, notwithstanding 
all our enemies or ill-wishers. Love, and be willing 
to be loved by, 

R. Russell. 



LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU (1689-1762) 

WAS the eldest daughter of the Duke of Kingston and the 
wife of Edward Wortley Montagu. She is chiefly remembered 
for her travels in the East and her famous letters written from 
Constantinople during her husband's term as Ambassador 
at the Porte. She enjoyed the reputation of being a beauty 
and a wit, and was for many years the friend and correspondent 
of Pope. 

To the Countess of [May]. 

VISITS TO THE HAREM 

Adrianople, April i8, O.S. [1717]. 

I wrote to you, dear sister, and to all my other 
English correspondents, by the last ship, and only 
Heaven can tell when I shall have another opportunity 
of sending to you ; but I cannot forbear writing, though 
perhaps my letter may lie upon my hands this two 
months. To confess the truth, my head is so full of my 
entertainment yesterday, that 'tis absolutely necessary 
for my own repose to give it some vent. Without farther 
preface, I will then begin my story. 

I was invited to dine with the Grand Vizier's lady, 
and it was with a great deal of pleasure I prepared myself 
for an entertainment which was never given before to 
any Christian. I thought I should very little satisfy 
her curiosity (which I did not doubt was a considerable 
motive to the invitation) by going in a dress she was 




p. 28] 



LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

From an engraving bv W. Greatbatch after the picture in the 
possession of the Earl of Harrington. 



THE GRAND VIZIER'S LADY 29 

used to see, and therefore dressed myself in the court 
habit of Vienna, which is much more magnificent than 
ours. However, I chose to go incognita, to avoid any 
disputes about ceremony, and went in a Turkish coach, 
only attended by my woman that held up my train, and 
the Greek lady who was my interpretess. I was met 
at the court door by her black eunuch, who helped me 
out of the coach with great respect, and conducted me 
through several rooms, where her she-slaves, finely 
dressed, were ranged on each side. In the innermost I 
found the lady sitting on her sofa, in a sable vest. She 
advanced to meet me, and presented me to half a dozen 
of her friends with great civility. She seemed a very 
good woman, near fifty years old. I was surprised 
to observe so little magnificence in her house, the furni- 
ture being all very moderate ; and, except the habits 
and number of her slaves, nothing about her that 
appeared expensive. She guessed at my thoughts, and 
told me that she was no longer of an age to spend either 
her time or money in superfluities ; that her whole 
expense was in charity, and her whole employment 
praying to God. There was no affectation in this speech ; 
both she and her husband are entirely given up to 
devotion. He never looks upon any other woman ; 
and, what is much more extraordinary, touches no 
bribes, notwithstanding the example of all his pre- 
decessors. He is so scrupulous in this point, that he 
would not accept Mr. W[ortley]'s present, till he had 
been assured over and over again that it was a settled 
perquisite of his place at the entrance of every 
ambassador. 

She entertained me with all kind of civility till dinner 
came in, which was served, one dish at a time, to a vast 



30 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

number, all finely dressed after their manner, which I 
do not think so bad as you have perhaps heard it repre-. 
sented. I am a very good judge of their eating, having 
lived three weeks in the house of an effendi at Belgrade, 
who gave us very magnificent dinners, dressed by his 
own cooks, which the first week pleased me extremely ; 
but I own I then began to grow weary of it and desired 
our own cook might add a dish or two after our manner. 
But I attribute this to custom. I am very much inclined 
to believe an Indian, that had never tasted of either, 
would prefer their cookery to ours. Their sauces are 
very high, all the roast very much done. They use a 
great deal of rich spice. The soup is served for the last 
dish ; and they have at least as great variety of ragouts 
as we have. I was very sorry I could not eat of as many 
as the good lady would have had me, who was very 
earnest in serving me of every thing. The treat con- 
cluded with coffee and perfumes, which is a high mark 
of respect ; two slaves kneeling censed my hair, clothes, 
and handkerchief. After this ceremony, she commanded 
her slaves to play and dance, which they did with their 
guitars in their hands ; and she excused to me their want 
of skill, saying she took no care to accomplish them in 
that art. 

I returned her thanks, and soon after took my leave. 
I was conducted back in the same manner I entered ; 
and would have gone straight to my own house ; but 
the Greek lady with me earnestly solicited me to visit 
the kiydya's lady, saying, he was the second officer 
in the empire, and ought indeed to be looked upon as 
the first, the Grand Vizier having only the name, while 
he exercised the authority. I had found so little diver- 
sion in this harem, that I had no mind to go into another. 



A TURKISH BANQUET 31 

But her importunity prevailed with me, and I am extreme 
glad that I was so complaisant. 

All things here were with quite another air than at 
the Grand Vizier's ; and the very house confessed the 
difference between an old devote and a young beauty. 
It was nicely clean and magnificent. I was met at the 
door by two black eunuchs, who led me through a long 
gallery between two ranks of beautiful young girls, with 
their hair finely plaited, almost hanging to their feet, 
all dressed in fine light damasks, brocaded with silver. 
I was sorry that decency did not permit me to stop to 
consider them nearer. But that thought was lost upon 
my -entrance into a large room, or rather pavilion, built 
round with gilded sashes, which were most of them 
thrown up, and the trees planted near them gave an 
agreeable shade, which hindered the sun from being 
troublesome. The jessamines and honeysuckles that 
twisted round their trunks shed a soft perfume, increased 
by a Vv^hite marble fountain playing sweet water in the 
lower part of the room, which fell into three or four 
basins with a pleasing sound. The roof was painted 
with all sorts of flowers, falling out of gilded baskets, 
that seemed tumbling down. On a sofa, raised three 
steps, and covered with fine Persian carpets, sat the 
kiydya's lady, leaning on cushions of white satin, em- 
broidered ; and at her feet sat two young girls, the eldest 
about twelve years old, lovely as angels, dressed perfectly 
rich, and almost covered with jewels. But they were 
hardly seen near the fair Fatima (for that is her name), 
so much her beauty effaced every thing I have seen, all 
that has been called lovely either in England or Germany, 
and [I] must own that I never saw any thing so gloriously 
beautiful, nor can I recollect a face that would have 



32 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

been taken notice of near hers. She stood up to receive 
me, saluting me after their fashion, putting her hand 
upon her heart with a sweetness full of majesty, that 
no court breeding could ever give. She ordered cushions 
to be given to me, and took care to place me in the 
corner, which is the place of honour. I confess, though 
the Greek lady had before given me a great opinion of 
her beauty, I was so struck with admiration, that I 
could not for some time speak to her, being wholly taken 
up in gazing. That surprising harmony of features ! 
that charming result of the whole ! that exact pro- 
portion of body ! that lovely bloom of complexion 
unsullied by art ! the unutterable enchantment of 
her smile ! — But her eyes ! — large and black, with all 
the soft languishment of the blue ! every turn of her 
face discovering some new charm. 

After my first surprise was over, I endeavoured, by 
nicely examining her face, to find out some imperfection, 
without any fruit of my search, but being clearly con- 
vinced of the error of that vulgar notion, that a face 
perfectly regular would not be agreeable ; nature having 
done for her with more success, what Apelles is said to 
have essayed, by a collection of the most exact features, 
to form a perfect face, and to that, a behaviour so full 
of grace and sweetness, such easy motions, with an air 
so majestic, yet free from stiffness or affectation, that I 
am persuaded, could she be suddenly transported upon 
the most polite throne of Europe, nobody would think 
her other than born and bred to be a queen, though 
educated in a country we call barbarous. To say all 
in a word, our most celebrated English beauties would 
vanish near her. 

She was dressed in a caftan of gold brocade, flowered 



TURKISH COSTUMES 33 

with silver, very well fitted to her shape, and showing 
to advantage the beauty of her bosom, only shaded 
by a thin gauze of her shift. Her drawers were pale 
pink, green and silver, her slippers white, finely em- 
broidered : her lovely arms adorned with bracelets of 
diamonds, and her broad girdle set round with diamonds ; 
upon her head a rich Turkish handkerchief of pink and 
silver, her own fine black hair hanging a great length 
in various tresses, and on one side of her head some 
bodkins of jewels. I am afraid you will accuse me of 
extravagance in this description. I think I have read 
somewhere that women always speak in rapture when 
they speak of beauty, but I cannot imagine why they 
should not be allowed to do so. I rather think it [a] 
virtue to be able to admire without any mixture of desire 
or envy. The gravest writers have spoken with great 
warmth of some celebrated pictures and statues. The 
workmanship of Heaven certainly excels all our weak 
imitations, and, I think, has a much better claim to 
our praise. For me, I am not ashamed to own I took 
more pleasure in looking on the beauteous Fatima than 
the finest piece of sculpture could have given me. 

She told me the two girls at her feet were her daughters, 
though she appeared too young to be their mother. Her 
fair maids were ranged below the sofa, to the number 
of twenty, and put me in mind of the pictures of the 
ancient nymphs. I do not think all nature could have 
furnished such a scene of beauty. She made them a 
sign to play and dance. Four of them immediately 
began to play some soft airs on instruments, between 
a lute and a guitar, which they accompanied with their 
voices, while the others danced by turns. This dance 
was very different from what I had seen before. Nothing 

3 



34 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

could be more artful, or more proper to raise certain 
ideas. The tunes so soft ! — the motions so languishing ! 
— accompanied with pauses and dying eyes ! half- 
falling back, and then recovering themselves. ... I 
suppose you may have read that the Turks have no 
music but what is shocking to the ears ; but this account 
is from those who never heard any but what is played in 
the streets, and is just as reasonable as if a foreigner 
should take his ideas of the English music from the 
bladder and string, and marrow-bones and cleavers. 
I can assure you that the music is extremely pathetic ; 
'tis true I am inclined to prefer the Italian, but perhaps 
I am partial. I am acquainted with a Greek lady who 
sings better than Mrs. Robinson, and is very well skilled 
in both, who gives the preference to the Turkish. 'Tis 
certain they have very fine natural voices ; these were 
very agreeable. When the dance was over, four fair 
slaves came into the room with silver censers in their 
hands, and perfumed the air with amber, aloes- wood, 
and other scents. After this they served me coffee 
upon their knees in the finest japan china, with soucoupes 
of silver-gilt. The lovely Fatima entertained me all 
this time in the most polite, agreeable manner, calling 
me often Guzel sultanum, or the beautiful sultana, and 
desiring my friendship with the best grace in the world, 
lamenting that she could not entertain me in my own 
language. 

When I took my leave, two maids brought in a fine 
silver basket of embroidered handkerchiefs ; she begged 
I would wear the richest for her sake, and gave the 
others to my woman and interpretess, I retired through 
the same ceremonies as before, and could not help 
fancying I had been some time in Mahomet's paradise. 



ORIENTAL MUSIC 35 

so much was I charmed with what I had seen. I 
know not how the relation of it appears to you. 
I wish it may give you part of my pleasure ; for I 
would have my dear sister share in all the diversions 
of, etc. 



Lady Mary Worthy Montagu to the Countess of Mar 

DINING WITH THE SULTANA 
Pera of Constantinople, March 10, O.S. [1718]. 

I have not written to you, dear sister, these many 
months : — a great piece of self-denial. But I know not 
where to direct, or what part of the world you were in. 
I have received no letter from you since that short note 
of April last, in which you tell me, that you are on the 
point of leaving England, and promise me a direction 
for the place you stay in ; but I have in vain expected 
it till now : and now I only learn from the gazette, that 
you are returned, which induces me to venture this 
letter to your house at London. I had rather ten of my 
letters should be lost, than you imagine I don't write ; 
and I think it is hard fortune if one in ten don't reach 
you. However, I am resolved to keep the copies, as 
testimonies of my inclination to give you, to the utmost 
of my power, all the diverting part of my travels, while 
you are exempt from all the fatigues and inconveniences. 

I went to see the Sultana Hafiten, favourite of the 
late Emperor Mustapha. who, you know (or perhaps you 
don't know), was deposed by his brother, the reigning 
Sultan Achmet, and died a few weeks after, being 



36 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

poisoned, as it was generally believed. This lady was, 
immediately after his death, saluted with an absolute 
order to leave the seraglio, and choose herself a husband 
from the great men at the Porte. I suppose you may 
imagine her overjoyed at this proposal. Quite con- 
trary ; these women, who are called, and esteem them- 
selves, queens, look upon this liberty as the greatest 
disgrace and affront that can happen to them. She 
threw herself at the Sultan's feet, and begged him to 
poignard her, rather than use his brother's widow with 
that contempt. She represented to him, in agonies of 
sorrow, that she was privileged from this misfortune, 
by having brought five princes into the Ottoman family ; 
but all the boys being dead, and only one girl surviving, 
this excuse was not received, and she [was] compelled to 
make her choice. She chose Bekir Effendi, then secretary 
of state, and above fourscore years old, since she must 
honour some subject so far as to be called his wife, she 
would choose him as a mark of her gratitude, since it 
was he that had presented her at the age of ten years 
old, to her last lord. But she has never permitted him. 
to pay her one visit ; though it is now fifteen years she 
has been in his house, where she passes her time in unin- 
terrupted mourning, with a constancy very little known 
in Christendom, especially in a widow of twenty-one, 
for she is now but thirty-six. She has no black eunuchs 
for her guard, her husband being obliged to respect 
her as a queen, and not inquire at all into what is done 
in her apartment, where I was led into a large room, 
with a sofa the whole length of it, adorned with white 
marble pillars like a rue lie, covered with pale blue 
figured velvet on a silver ground, with cushions of the 
same, where I was desired to repose till the Sultana 



THE SULTANA'S JEWELS ^^7 

appeared, who had contrived this manner of reception 
to avoid rising up at my entrance, though she made me 
an incHnation of her head, when I rose up to her. I 
was very glad to observe a lady that had been dis- 
tinguished by the favour of an emperor, to whom beauties 
were every day presented from all parts of the world. 
But she did not seem to me to have ever been half so 
beautiful as the fair Fatima I saw at Adrianople ; though 
she had the remains of a fine face, more decayed by 
sorrow than time. But her dress was something so 
surprisingly rich, I cannot forbear describing it to you. 
She wore a vest called donalma, and which differs from 
a caftan by longer sleeves, and folding over at the bottom. 
It was of purple cloth, straight to her shape, and thick 
set, on each side, down to her feet, and round the sleeves, 
with pearls of the best water, of the same size as their 
buttons, commonly are. You must not suppose I mean 

as large as those of my Lord , but about the bigness 

of a pea ; and to these buttons large loops of diamonds, 
in the form of those gold loops so common upon birth- 
day coats. This habit was tied, at the waist, with two 
large tassels of smaller pearl, and round the arms em- 
broidered with large diamonds : her shift fastened at 
the bottom with a great diamond, shaped like a lozenge : 
her girdle as broad as the broadest English ribbon, 
entirely covered with diamonds. Round her neck 
she wore three chains, which reached to her knees : 
one of large pearl, at the bottom of which hung a fine 
coloured emerald, as big as a turkey-egg ; another, con- 
sisting of two hundred emeralds, close joined together, 
of the most lively green, perfectly matched, every one 
as large as a half-crown piece, and as thick as three 
crown pieces ; and another of small emeralds, perfectly 



38 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

round. But her earrings eclipsed all the rest. They 
were two diamonds, shaped exactly like pears, as large 
as a big hazel-nut. Round her talpoche she had four 
strings of pearl, the whitest and most perfect in the 
world, at least enough to make four necklaces, every 
one as large as the Duchess of Marlborough's, and of 
the same size, fastened with two roses, consisting of a 
large ruby for the middle stone, and round them twenty 
drops of clean diamonds to each. Besides this, her 
head-dress was covered with bodkins of emeralds and 
diamonds. She wore large diamond bracelets, and 
had five rings on her fingers, all single diamonds, (except 
Mr. Pitt's) the largest I ever saw in my life. It is for 
jewellers to compute the value of these things ; but, 
according to the common estimation of jewels in our 
part of the world, her whole dress must be worth above 
a hundred thousand pounds sterling. This I am very 
sure of, that no European queen has half the quantity : 
and the empress's jewels, though very fine, would look 
very mean near hers. 

She gave me a dinner of fifty dishes of meat, which 
(after their fashion) were placed on the table but one at 
a time, and was extremely tedious. But the magnifi- 
cence of her table answered very well to that of her 
dress. The knives were of gold, the hafts set with 
diamonds. But the piece of luxury that grieved my 
eyes was the table-cloth and napkins, which were all 
tiffany, embroidered with silks and gold, in the finest 
manner, in natural flowers. It was with the utmost 
regret that I made use of these costly napkins, as finely 
wrought as the finest handkerchiefs that ever came out 
of this country. You may be sure, that they were 
entirely spoiled before dinner was over. The sherbet 



COSTLY NAPERY 3Q 

(which is the liquor they drink at meals) was served in 
china bowls ; but the covers and salvers massy gold. 
After dinner, water was brought in a gold basin, and 
towels of the same kind of the 'napkins, which I very 
unwillingy wiped my hands upon ; and coffee was 
served in china, with gold soiicoupes. 

The Sultana seemed in very good humour, and talked 
to me \vith the utmost civility. I did not omit this 
opportunity of learning all that I possibly could of the 
seraglio, which is so entirely unknown among us. She 
assured me that the story of the Sultan's throwing a 
handkerchief is altogether fabulous ; and the manner 
upon that occasion, no other but that he sends the 
kysldr agd, to signify to the lady the honour he intends 
her. She is immediately complimented upon it by the 
others, and led to the bath, where she is perfumed and 
dressed in the most magnificent and becoming manner. 
The Emperor precedes his visit by a royal present, and 
then comes into her apartment : neither is there any 
such thing as her creeping in at the bed's foot. She 
said, that the first he made choice of was always after 
the first in rank, and not the mother of the eldest son, as 
other writers would make us believe. Sometimes the 
Sultan diverts himself in the company of all his ladies, 
who stand in a circle round him. And she confessed 
that they were ready to die with jealousy and envy of 
the happy she that he distinguished by any appearance 
of preference. But this seemed to me neither better 
nor worse than the circles in most courts, where the 
glance of the monarch is watched, and every smile 
waited for with impatience, and envied by those who 
cannot obtain it. 

She never mentioned the Sultan without tears in her 



40 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

eyes, yet she seemed very fond of the discourse. " My 
past happiness," said she, " appears a dream to me. 
Yet I cannot forget, that I was beloved by the greatest 
and most lovely of mankind. I was chosen from all 
the rest, to make all his campaigns with him ; I would 
not survive him, if I was not passionately fond of the 
princess my daughter. Yet all my tenderness for her 
was hardly enough to make me preserve my life. When 
I lost him, I passed a whole twelvemonth without seeing 
the light. Time has softened my despair ; yet I now 
pass some days every week in tears, devoted to the 
memory of my Sultan." 

There was no affectation in these words. It was easy 
to see she was in a deep melancholy, though her good 
humour made her willing to divert me. 

She asked me to walk in her garden, and one of her 
slaves immediately brought her a pellice of rich brocade 
lined with sables. I waited on her into the garden, 
which had nothing in it remarkable but the fountains ; 
and from thence she showed me all her apartments. In 
her bed-chamber her toilet was displayed, consisting of 
two looking-glasses, the frames covered with pearls, 
and her night talpoche set with bodkins of jewels, and 
near it three vests of fine sables, every one of which is, 
at least, worth a thousand dollars (two hundred pounds 
English money). I don't doubt these rich habits were 
purposely placed in sight, but they seemed negligently 
thrown on the sofa. When I took my leave of her, I 
was complimented with perfumes, as at the Grand 
Vizier's, and presented with a very fine embroidered 
handkerchief. Her slaves were to the number of thirty, 
besides ten little ones, the eldest not above seven years 
old. These were the most beautiful girls I ever saw, all 



TURKISH SLAVE-GIRLS 41 

richly dressed ; and I observed that the Sultana took 
a great deal of pleasure in these lovely children, which is 
a vast expense ; for there is not a handsome girl of that 
age to be bought under a hundred pounds sterling. 
They wore little garlands of flowers, and their own hair, 
braided, which was all their head-dress ; but their habits 
all of gold stuffs. These served her coffee, kneeling ; 
brought water when she washed, etc. It is a great part 
of the business of the older slaves to take care of these 
girls, to learn them to embroider, and serve them as 
carefully as if they Avere children of the family. 

Now, do I fancy that you imagine I have entertained 
you, all this while, with a relation that has, at least, 
received many embellishments from my hand ? This 
is but too like (say you) the Arabian Tales : these em- 
broidered napkins ! and a jewel as large as a turkey's 
egg ! — You forget, dear sister, those very tales were 
written by an author of this country, and (excepting 
the enchantments) are a real representation of the 
manners here. We travellers are in very hard circum- 
stances : If we say nothing but what has been said 
before us, we are dull, and we have observed nothing. 
If we tell any thing new, we are laughed at as fabulous 
and romantic, not allowing for the difference of ranks, 
which afford difference of company, more curiosity, or 
the change of customs, that happen every twenty years 
in every country. But people judge of travellers exactly 
with the same candour, good nature, and impartiality, 
they judge of their neighbours upon all occasions. For 
my part, if I live to return amongst you, I am so well 
acquainted with the morals of all my dear friends and 
acquaintance, that I am resolved to tell them nothing 
at all, to avoid the imputation (which their charity 



42 LADY xMARY ^^/ORTLEY MONTAGU 

would certainly incline them to) of my telling too much. 
But I depend upon your knowing me enough to believe 
whatever I seriously assert for truth ; though I give 
you leave to be surprised at an account so new to you. 
But what would you say if I told you, that I have been 
in a harem, where the winter apartment was wainscoted 
with inlaid work of mother-of-pearl, ivory of different 
colours, and olive-wood, exactly like the little boxes you 
have seen brought out of this country ; and those rooms 
designed for summer, the walls all crusted with japan 
china, the roofs gilt and the floors spread with the 
finest Persian carpets ? Y^et there is nothing more 
true ; such is the palace of my lovely friend, the fair 
Fatima, whom I was acquainted with at Adrianople. I 
went to visit her yesterday ; and, if possible, she appeared 
to be handsomer than before. She met me at the door 
of her chamber, and, giving me her hand with the best 
grace in the world — " You Christian ladies," said she, 
with a smile that made her as handsome as an angel, 
" have the reputation of inconstancy, and I did not 
expect, whatever goodness you expressed for me at 
Adrianople, that I should ever see you again. But I 
am now convinced that I have really the happiness of 
pleasing you ; and, if 3'ou knew how I speak of you 
amongst our ladies, you would be assured that you do 
me justice if you think me your friend." She placed 
me in the corner of the sofa, and I spent the afternoon 
in her conversation, with the greatest pleasure in the 
world. 

The Sultana Hafiten is, what one would naturally 
expect to find a Turkish lady, willing to oblige, but not 
knowing how to go about it ; and it is easy to see in her 
manner, that she has lived secluded from the world. 



TURKISH COMPLIMENTS 43 

But Fatima has all the politeness and good breeding of 
a court ; with an air that inspires, at once, respect and 
tenderness ; and now I understand her language, I find 
her wit as engaging as her beauty. She is very curious 
after the manners of other countries, and has not the 
partiality for her own, so common in little minds. A 
Greek that I carried with me, who had never seen her 
before (nor could have been admitted now, if she had 
not been in my train), shewed that surprise at her beauty 
and manner which is unavoidable at the first sight, and 
said to me in Italian, " This is no Turkish lady, she is 
certainly some Christian." Fatima guessed she spoke 
of her, and asked what she said. I would not have told, 
thinking she would have been no better pleased with the 
compliment than one of our court beauties to be told 
she had the air of a Turk ; but the Greek lady told it 
her ; and she smiled, saying, " It is not the first time I 
have heard so : my mother was a Poloneze, taken at 
the siege of Caminiec ; and my father used to rally me, 
saying. He believed his Christian wife had found some 
Christian gallant ; for I had not the air of a Turkish 
girl." I assured her, that, if all the Turkish ladies were 
like her, it was absolutely necessary to confine them 
from public view, for the repose of mankind ; and pro- 
ceeded to tell her what a noise such a face as hers would 
make in London or Paris. " I can't believe you," 
replied she, agreeably ; "if beauty was so much valued 
in your country, as you say, they would never have 
suffered you to leave it." Perhaps, dear sister, you 
laugh at my vanity in repeating this compliment ; but 
I only do it as I think it very well turned, and give it 
you as an instance of the spirit of her conversation. 
Her house was magnificently furnished, and very 



44 LADY iMARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

well fancied ; her winter rooms being furnished with 
figured velvet on gold grounds, and those for summer 
with fine Indian quilting embroidered with gold. The 
houses of the great Turkish ladies are kept clean with as 
much nicety as those in Holland. This was situated 
in a high part of the town ; and from the windows of 
her summer apartment we had the prospect of the sea, 
the islands, and the Asian mountains. 

My letter is insensibly grown so long, I am ashamed 
of it. This is a very bad symptom. 'Tis well if I don't 
degenerate into a downright stor^^-teller. It may be, 
our proverb, that knowledge is no burthen, may be true 
as to one's self, but knowing too much is very apt to 
make us troublesome to other people. 



Lady Mary Wortley Montagu to the Countess of Bute 

THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN 

February 19, N.S. [i749j- 

My dear Child, — I gave you some general thoughts 
on the education of your children in my last letter ; but 
fearing you should think I neglected your request, by 
answering it with too much conciseness, I am resolved 
to add to it what little I know on that subject, and 
which may perhaps be useful to you in a concern with 
which you seem so nearly affected. 

People commonly educate their children as they 
build their houses, according to some plan they think 
beautiful, without considering whether it is suited to 
the purposes for which they are designed. Almost all 
girls of quality are educated as if they were to be great 
ladies, which is often as little to be expected as an 



UNPLEASANT CANDOUR 45 

immoderate heat of the sun m the north of Scotland. 
You should teach yours to confine their desires to proba- 
bilities, to be as useful as is possible to themselves, and 
to think privacy (as it is) the happiest state of life. I 
do not doubt you give them all the instructions necessary 
to form them to a virtuous life ; but 'tis a fatal mistake 
to do this without proper restrictions. Vices are often 
hid under the name of virtues, and the practice of them 
followed by the worst of consequences. Sincerity, 
friendship, piety, disinterestedness, and generosity, are 
all great virtues ; but, pursued without discretion, be- 
come criminal. I have seen ladies indulge their own 
ill-humour by being very rude and impertinent, and 
think they deserved approbation by saying I love to 
speak truth. One of your acquaintances made a ball 
the next day after her mother died, to show she was 
sincere. I believe your own reflection will furnish you 
with but too many examples of the ill-effects of the 
rest of the sentiments I have mentioned, when too 
warmly embraced. They are generally recommended 
to young people without limits or distinction, and this 
prejudice hurries them into great misfortunes, while 
they are applauding themselves in the noble practice 
(as they fancy) of very eminent virtues. 

I cannot help adding (out of my real affection to 
you), I wish you would moderate that fondness you have 
for your children. I do not mean you should abate 
any part of your care, or not do your duty to them in 
its utmost extent : but I would have you early prepare 
yourself for disappointments, which are heavy in pro- 
portion to their being surprising. It is hardly possible, 
in such a number, that none should be unhappy ; pre- 
pare yourself against a misfortune of that kind. I 



46 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 

confess there is hardly any more difficult to support ; 
yet it is certain imagination has a great share in the 
pain of it, and it is more in our power than it is com- 
monly believed to soften whatever ills are founded or 
augmented by fancy. Strictly speaking, there is but 
one real evil — I mean, acute pain ; all other complaints 
are so considerably diminished by time, that it is plain 
the grief is owing to our passion, since the sensation of 
it vanishes when that is over. 

There is another mistake, I forgot to mention, usual 
in mothers : if any of their daughters are beauties, they 
take great pains to persuade them that they are ugly, 
or at least that they think so, which the young woman 
never fails to believe springs from envy, and is perhaps 
not much in the wrong. I would, if possible, give them 
a just notion of their figure, and show them how far it 
is valuable. Every advantage has its price, and may 
be either over or undervalued. It is the common doctrine 
of (what are called) good books, to inspire a contempt 
of beauty, riches, greatness, etc., which has done so 
much mischief among the young of our sex as an over- 
eager desire of them. They should look on these things 
as blessings where they are bestowed, though not 
necessaries that it is impossible to be happy with- 
out. I am persuaded the ruin of Lady F[rances] 
M[eadowsl was in great measure owing to the notions 
given her by the silly good people that had the care of 
her. 'Tis true, her circumstances and your daughters* 
are very different : they should be taught to be content 
with privacy, and yet not neglect good fortune, if it 
should be offered them. 

I am afraid, I have tired you with my instructions. I 
do not give them as believing my age has furnished me 



PARENTAL METHODS 47 

with superior wisdom, but in compliance with your 
desire, and being fond of every opportunity that gives 
a proof of the tenderness with which I am ever 

Your affectionate Mother. 

I should be glad if you sent me the third volume of 
[Campbell's] Architecture, and \\dth it any other entertain- 
ing books. I have seen theD[uches]s of M[arlborough]'s 
Memoirs, but should be glad of the " Apology for a late 
Resignation." As to the ale, 'tis now so late in the 
year, it is impossible it should come good. You do 
not mention your father ; my last letter from him told 
me he intended soon for England. I am afraid several 
of mine to him have miscarried, though directed as he 
ordered. I have asked you so often the price of raw 
silk, that I am weary of repeating it. However, I once 
more beg that you would send me that information. 



ESTHER VANHOMRIGH ("VANESSA") (1690-1723) 

WAS of Dutch descent. She was living in London with her 
mother, a rich widow, when, in 17 10, she became acquainted 
with Jonathan Swift. When he returned to Ireland, Swift 
corresponded with " Vanessa," which name she had now 
assumed ; and although his attitude was rather that of a 
father than a lover, she grew distracted and conceived a 
violent passion for the Dean. His admiration, however, for 
"Stella" (Esther Johnson), and the rumour of his marriage 
to her, reached " V^anessa," who wrote to Stella for confirma- 
tion of the report. The letter was shown to Swift, who 
hastened in fury to the unhappy " Vanessa," and in silent 
rage flung the letter on a table before her, and rode off again. 
Vanessa died shortly afterwards from the effect of the shock 
of Swift's anger. 



48 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 

To Jonathan Swift 

Vanessa's love-letters 

You bid me be easy, and you would see me as often 
as you could. You had better have said, as often as 
you could get the better of your inclinations so much, 
or as often as you remember there was such a one in the 
world. If 3^ou continue to treat me as you do, you will 
not be made uneasy by me long. It is impossible to 
describe what I have suffered since I saw you last. I 
am sure I could have borne the rack much better than 
those killing, killing words of yours. Sometimes I have 
resolved to die without seeing you more, but those 
resolves, to your misfortune, did not last long. For 
there is something in human nature that prompts one 
so to find relief in this world, I must give way to it, and 
beg you would see me, and speak kindly to me ; for I 
am sure you would not condemn any one to suffer what 
I have done, could you but know it. The reason I \\Tite 
to you is, because I cannot tell it to you should I see 
you ; for when I begin to complain, then you are angry, 
and there is something in your looks so awful, that it 
strikes me dumb. O ! but that you may have but so 
much regard for me left, that this complaint may touch 
your soul with pity \ I say as little as ever I can ; 
did you but know what I thought, I am sure it would 
move you to forgive me : and believe I cannot help 
telling you this and live. 

Esther Vanhomrigh to Jonathan Swift 

London, September i, 1712. 
Had I a correspondent in China, I might have had an 
answer by this time. I never could think till now that 



VANESSA TO SWIFT 49 

London was so far off in your thoughts, and that twenty 
miles were, by your computation, equal to some 
thousands. I thought it a piece of charity to undeceive 
you in this point, and to let you know, if you give your- 
self the trouble to write, I may probably receive your 
letter in a day : 'twas that made me venture to take 
pen in hand the third time. Sure you'll not let it be to 
no purpose. You must needs be extremely happy 
where you are, to forget absent friends ; and I believe 
you have formed a new system, and think there is no 
more of this world, passing your sensible horizon. If 
this be your notion, I must excuse you ; if not, you can 
plead no other excuse ; and if it be, sir, I must reckon 
myself of another world ; but I shall have much ado to 
be persuaded till you send me some convincing arguments 
of it. Don't dally in a thing of this consequence, but 
demonstrate that 'tis possible to keep up a correspon- 
dence between friends though in different worlds, and 
assure one another, as I do you, that I am your most 
obedient and most humble servant, 

E. Vanhomrigh, 



Esther Vanhomrigh to Jonathan Swift 

— Cad — you are good beyond expression, and I will 
never quarrel again if I can help it ; but, with sub- 
mission, 'tis you that are so hard to be pleased, though 
you complain of me. I thought the last letter I wrote 
you was obscure and constrained enough. I took pains 
to write it after your manner ; it would have been much 
easier for me to have wrote otherwise. I am not so 
unreasonable as to expect you should keep your word 
to a day, but six or seven days are great odds. Why 

4 



50 ESTHER VANHOMRIGH 

should your apprehensions for Molkin hinder you from 
writing to me ? I think you should have wrote the 
sooner to have comforted me. Molkin is better, but 
in a very weak way. Though those who saw me told 
you nothing of my illness, I do assure you I was for 
twenty-four hours as ill as 'twas possible to be, and live. 
You wrong me when you say I did not find that you 
answered my questions to my satisfaction. What I 
said was, I had asked those questions as you bid, but 
could not find them answered to my satisfaction. How 
could they be answered in absence, since Somnus is not 
my friend ? We have had a vast deal of thunder and 
lightning — where do you think I wished to be then ? 
And do you think that was the only time I wished so 
since I saw you ? I am sorry my jealousy should hinder 
you from writing more love-letters ; for I must chide 
sometimes, and I wish I could gain by it at this instant, 
as I have done and hope to do. Is my dating my letter 
wrong the only sign of my being in love ? Pray tell me, 
did not you wish to come where that road to the left 
would have led you ? I am mightily pleased to hear you 
talk of being in a huff ; 'tis the first time you ever told 
me so. I wish I could see you in one. I am now as 
happy as I can be without seeing — Cad. I beg you will 
continue happiness to your own Skinage. 



A. G. 

A. G. was at one time in the service of Mr. Granville, a relative 
of Mrs. Delany. In these letters she is writing to a friend 
in his service at Calwich. There is no clue to her identity, 
but her letters are curious and entertaining and show con- 
siderable interest in current affairs. 



A WITTY SERVING-MAID 51 

To her friend Martha, at Calwich 

THE WESTMINSTER FOX 

December 12, 1745. 
Indeed, my good friend Martha, you send me so 
many fine presents that I shall blind myself with 
thanking you, or what will be almost as bad, kill myself 
with eating them. Such a turkey ! O how mon- 
strously I did eate, and to be sure it lasted me more 
meals than one ; though I did give Mrs. Donellan a 
bitt. She sends her compliments to master, and 
desires you will tell him that he is sadly wanted in 
town, and upon my word I long to see him more than 
I will say. We have terible cold weather ; I have 
been half froze. I realy think I shou'd not have lived 
last week if you had not sent me the good turkey to 
eate : it kept the frost out of my stomach. I honour 
Toby for killing so many ratts, and I am rejoyed to 
think the fox is killed ; I wish you could kill ten more, 
and then the skins would make me a gown. But 
can you tell me how you catched him, for here is the 
greatest devil of a fox at present hanging about St. 
George's and Westminster that was ever known any- 
where ; he destroys everything he comes near, beast 
and bird ; some people think he has brought to his 
den the very king of beasts ; he does not kill them all, 
for he could not eate so many, but he makes them 
destroy one another. He has a cunning way of drawing 
them all about him, and they say he has a kind of 
glittering dust in his brush that he shakes when they 
are near him, and the dust flies into all their eyes, 
and from that time they do nothing but devour and 
eate one another, and he does not forget to make them 



52 A. G. 

bring tit-bitts and good morsels to put in his own maw. 
He has been hunted these two or three winters furiously, 
traps and gins of all sorts set, but he has not yet been 
catched. Now, dear Martha, if you can put me in a 
way how to catch him I wou'd cut off his tail and put 
an end to his shaking that cursed shining dust about, 
and pull out both his eyes, then you and I wou'd carry 
him about for a shew ; we shou'd get a power of money 
by him at sixpence a piece. I am told there is not 
one county in England where he has not sent some of 
his own breed to, and has given them some of this 
more than accursed dust, with which they do more 
mischief than any beast alive has ever done. Maybe 
it is one of them you have killed for fear it shou'd burry 
his brush deep in the earth for fear of this same dust ; 
and have a care of your own eyes, and I beg master 
will take care of his, for they say it may do Christians' 
eyes harm as well as others. 

The King of Prussia is well, and going into winter 
quarters : he says he will knock all their heads together 
in the spring, and / hope he will. 

I have no news. My duty to master, and tel him I pro- 

digously wish he wou'd come to town this bad weather. 

I hope you will take care and keep yourself warm this 

winter. Mrs. Donellan is remembered to you, and I am. 

Dear Martha, sincerely yours, 

A. G. 

A. G. io her friend Martha at Calwich 

HOT WEATHER RECIPES 

August 1745- 
Indeed, my good friend Martha, it has been a deadly 
while I have taken to answer your kind letter, but 



HOT WEATHER RECIPES 53 

what can a body doe with odc eye, and that a very 
bad one. Moreover, my hand shakes like any aspen 
leafe, and I have not been well all summer. I have 
a pain in my shoulder on one side, and a pain in my 
elbow on the other ; much pain and very lame of my 
knees, and ankcles ; when I walk, it is like an elephant, 
without bending a joint. O how I grunt and groan 
night and day ! I will take my oath I would rather 
be an otter than an old woman ; but you do not know 
what it is to be old ! You are capering about in your 
fine cardinals, and things, like a girl of twenty. I 
suppose you are about geting a good husband. I was 
told so, and much good may it doe you, if he gives you 
a hearty thrashing now and then. I wish you wou'd 
tell me who he is ; write me word what his name is. 
But I hope this affair do not make you forget the dear 
piggs, and turkeys, and geese and ducks ; send me 
word if they be in good heart and thriving. And what 
is master doing ? Is he smothered amongst the lime 
and bricks ? or has he got his work done, and laid 
himself down upon the gazy hill, to take breath a 
little ? This furious hott weather — I never felt such 
in my life. Tel him, that is, if he have outlived it 
that I have thought forty times to come to Calwich, 
and live in the river amongst the otters, and lye titely 
with them and try whether they or I should eat the 
most carps ; and I believe I should have come, if a 
thought had not changed in my head, that there might 
come at once a hundred about me, and eate me up, 
in stead of a perch. You know I am a little slimikin 
thing, not unlike a perch or an eel, both which they 
like, and might easily misstake and pick my bones in 
a moment ; so I chous to stay and be broyled at Ful- 



54 A. G. 

ham. But I have been so taken up with your intended 
marriage, and my owne history, that I have not said 
a word of Mrs. Donellan, who is nearer my heart 
than any other thing; even the King, his owne self I 
do not love half so well ! Ask master if that be not 
saying a great deal, and tell him, as he remembers 
he left her much out of order in London, that she grew 
worse every day till we came to Fulham. At that 
time she was scarce able to get on horse back ; however, 
she did, and rid every day, with which she mended 
considerably til the violent hott wether came, which 
made it impossible for any body to ride, the heat and 
the dust was so powerfull. She has not been on horse 
back near a month, and is not so well ; very restless 
nights, and her cough bad. Thank God, yesterday 
the weather changed, and brought us some rain, not 
before it was wanted, for this part of the world was 
quite burned up ; no grass to be seen, but the corn 
extreme fine, and ready to reap. If it please God to 
send us a good harvest we shall have great plenty 
of that. How has the season been with you ? Have 
you any fruit ? We have not as much as curans fitt 
to make a little wine with. Well, I wish you wou'd 
let me know what master is doing. Has he finished 
his house, done all he has to doe, and got rid of his 
workmen ? Surely, I thought, he wou'd have been 
in London before now, and have got a new gown on 
purpose, thinking to see all the prime youth of Stafford- 
shire review'd in Hyed Park, with Colonel Granville 
at the head of them — such a day ! So I went ; but 
when I found it was the Norfolk Militia, how was I 
mortifyed, though they were fine men, and very fine 
of&cers ! But what did I care for them ? I \\ anted 



THE REVIEW AT HYDE PARK 55 

to have seen master ! and now they tell me your militia 
are not yet raised. Good luck ! good luck ! What is 
it you mean to be so doul ? I realy believe in my 
heart master do not care if the French coms and eate 
us all up alive. Is there not flat boats — I know not 
how many thousands — ready to come every day ? 
and when they once set out they will be with us as 
quick as a swallow can fly, almost ; and when they 
land we have no body to fight them, because you will 
not rais your militia. For my part I dare not go to 
the Thames, for feare they shou'd be coming ; and if 
I see one of our own boats leaden with carrats, I am 
ready to drop down, thinking it one of the French. 
I have not one word of news, but that it is grown cooler 
to my great joye. Mrs. Donellan is got on horse back 
again, and I hope it will doe her good. She sends 
master her most kind compliments, and I hope he 
will accept of a thousand good wishes of mine, which 
coms to him heartily. Mrs. Donellan remembers 
you kindly, and I hope dear Martha will believe that 
I am, her true old friend, 

A. G. 



ELIZABETH MONTAGU (1720-1800) 

WAS the daughter of Mr. Robinson a Yorkshire squire, and 
the wife of Mr. Montagu, grandson of the Earl of Sandwich. 
She was famed for the literary gatherings at her house, where 
conversation took the place of card-playing — an innovation 
at once imitated by her friends. Mrs. Montagu was one 
of the original " blue-stocking " circle, and the term first 
originated at one of her assemblies. She delighed in en- 
tertaining the lions of her time, as well as little chimney- 



56 ELIZABETH MONTAGU 

sweeps. She wrote an essay on Shakespeare and belonged 
to Dr. Johnson's circle. 



To the Duchess of Portland 

MATRIMONIAL PROSPECTS 

HoRTON, December 1738. 

Madam, — I cannot possibly show a greater regard to 
your Grace's commands, than by obeying them in the 
strictest sense ; therefore as you desired me to write 
to you soon, I have written the soonest that was possible. 

I arrived at Mount Morris rather more fond of society 
than solitude. I thought it as very agreeable change 
of scene from Handel and Gaffarelli, to woodlarks 
and nightingales, it seems to me to be something like 
the different seasons of youth and age ; first, noise 
and public shew, and then after being convinced that 
is vanity, retirement to shades and solitude, which 
we soon find to be vexation of spirit. I think Solomon 
was in the wrong when he said all was vanity and 
vexation of spirit ; for the one succeeds the other, as 
darkness does light, and especially in the women ; 
the young maid is all vanity, and the old one all vexation. 
The same cheek which when blooming was the woman's 
vanity, when wrinkled becomes her vexation ; but 
everything has its use ; were it not for wrinkles, what 
prudent maxims should we lose which now instruct 
us ? what scandals which divert us ? for old maids 
have nothing to do but to shew their own prudence and 
other people's follies. You see how sententious I am 
grown only by a fortnight's retirement from the world. 
When the world has left me I shall speak only in proverbs, 



A CORPULENT SUITOR 57 

for if these things are done in a green tree what shall 

be done in a dry ? Sir F. D 's sister is to be married 

to Sir R 1 A h, a baronet of our county ; if 

the size of his estate bore any proportion to the bulk 
of his carcass, he would be one of the greatest matches 
in England, but unhappily for her, the first is as re- 
markably small as the other is large ; so all she is to 
get for six thousand pounds is a fat man, a lean estate, 
and a trumpery title. Indeed a lady may make her 
lover languish till he is of the size she most likes ; if 
she should waste him an ell in circumference, he would 

be almost as slim a man as Sir John C n. At 

present you would take him for a descendant of Gog 
and Magog. As it is not now the fashion for men to 
die for love, the only thing a woman can do to give 
herself a reputation is to bring a man into a consumption. 
What triumph then must attend the lady who reduces 

Sir R. A to asses' milk ! Queen Omphale made 

Hercules spin, but greater glory waits the lady who 

makes Sir A lean. 

I hope your Grace will favour me with a letter soon ; 
to write to you from hence would be extremely like 
Swift's country post of news from the hen roost. I 
told my papa how much he laid under your Grace's 
displeasure for hurrying out of town ; but what is 
a fine lady's anger, or the loss of London to five-and- 
forty ? They are more afraid of an easterly wind than 
a frown when they are of that age. My mamma and 
sister desire their compliments. I hope the Marquis 
of Titchfield is well. 

I am, Madam, 

Your most humble servant, 

Euz. Robinson. 



58 ELIZABETH MONTAGU 

Elizabeth Robinson {Mrs. Montagu) to the Duchess of 
Portland 

CONVERSATION AT BATH 

Bath, January 4, 1740. 
Madam, — As a whole fortnight has elapsed without 
your Grace's bestowing any new favour upon me, 
I really believe you have entirely forgotten there is a 
forlorn Fidget in the world. I can hardly say she 
lives, while she is so far from you ; but she eats, drinks, 
sleeps, coughs, and sneezes, which are all the signs of 
life some people have, and indeed is very nearly as 
much alive as anybody here. I wish your Grace would 
consider that Bath water is not Helicon and affords 
no inspiration ; and that there is no place where one 
stands in greater need of something to enliven the 
brain and inspire the imagination. I hear every day 
of people's pumping their arms or legs for the rheumatism, 
but the pumping for wit is one of the hardest and most 
fruitless labours in the world. I should be glad to 
send you some news, but all the news of the place 
would be like the bills of mortality : palsey, four ; gout, 
six ; fever, one ; etc., etc. We hear of nothing but 
Mr. Such-a-one is not abroad to-day ? Oh ! no, says 
another, poor gentleman, he died to-day. Then another 
cries, My party was made for quadrille to-night, but 
one of the gentlemen has had a second stroke of the 
palsey, and cannot come out. There is no depending 
upon people, nobody minds engagements. Indeed the 
only thing one can do to-day we did not do the day 
before is to die : not that I would be hurried by a love 
of variety and novelty to do so irreparable a thing 
as dying. To shew you how loth I am even to dance 



CONVERSATION AT BATH 59 

a step towards it, I will tell your Grace that I staid 
away last night from the ball, because I had a cold. 
I shall be always glad to live while I can see you. I 
do not expect to see such another, for that might require 
the age of an antediluvian, 

I am, Madam, 
Your Grace's most obedient servant, 

E. Robinson. 



Elizabeth Robinson {Mrs. Montagu) to Rev. Dr. Shaw, 
F.R.S.^ 

A MATRIMONIAL HOMILY 

[1742] 

Rev. Sir, — You will perhaps think me rather too 
hasty in my congratulations if I wish you joy of being 
going to be married, whereas it is generally usual to 
stay till people really are so before we offer to make 
our compliments. But joy is a very transitory thing, 
therefore I am willing to seize on the first occasion ; 
and, as I imagine you are glad you are going to be 
married, I wish you joy of that gladness ; for whether 
you will be glad after you are married is more than 
mortal wight can determine ; and having prepared 
myself to rejoice with you, I should be loth to defer 
writing till, perhaps, you were become sorrowful. 
I must therefore in prudence prevent your espousals. 
I would not have you imagine I shall treat matrimony 
in a ludicrous manner ; it is impossible for a man 
who, alas ! has had two wives, to look upon it as a 

1 This anonymous letter was written by Miss Robinson and 
sent to Dr. Shaw the traveller, at the instigation, and for the 
amusement of, the Duchess of Portland and her society. 



6o ELIZABETH MONTAGU 

jest, or think it a light thing ; indeed, it has several 
advantages over a single life. You, that have made 
many voyages, know that a tempest is better than a 
dead calm ; and matrimony teaches many excellent 
lessons, particularly patience and submission, and 
brings with it all the advantages of reproof, and the 
great profit of remonstrances. These indeed are only 
temporal benefits ; but besides, any wife will save 
you from purgatory, and a diligent will secure heaven 
to you. If you would atone for your sins, and do a 
work m-cet for repentance, marry. Some people wonder 
how Cupid has been able to wound a person of your 
prowess ; you, who wept not with the crocodile, listened 
not to the Sirens, stared the basilisk in the face, whistled 
to the rattle-snake, went to the masquerade with 
Proteus, danced the hays with Scylla and Charybdis, 
taught the dog of the Nile to fetch and carry, waked 
cheek by jowl with a lion, made an intimacy with a 
tiger, wrestled with a bear, and, in short, have lived 
like an owl in the desert or a pelican in the wilderness ; 
after defying monsters so furious and fell, that you 
should be overcome by an arrow out of a little urchin's 
quiver is amazing ! Have you not beheld the mummies 
of the beauteous Cleopatra, and of the fair consorts 
of the Ptolemies, without one amorous sigh ! And now 
to fall a victim to a mere modern human widow is 
most unworthy of you ! What qualities has a woman 
that you have not vanquished ? Her tears are not 
more apt to betray than those of the crocodile, she 
is hardly as deceitful as the Siren, less deadly, I believe, 
than the basilisk or rattle-snake, scarce as changeable 
as Proteus, nor more dangerous than Scylla and Cha- 
ribids, as docile and faithful as the dog of the Nile, 



BEAUTY'S SNARES 6i 

sociable as the lion, and mild, sure, as the tiger ! As her 
qualities are not more deadly than those of the animals 
you have despised, what is it that has conquered you ? 
Can it be her beauty ? Is she as handsome as the 
empress of the woods ? as well accommodated as 
the many-chambered sailer ? or as skilful as the 
nautilus ? You will find many a creature by earth, 
air, and water, that is more beautiful than a woman ; 
but indeed she is composed of all elements, and 

Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin. 
And great's thy danger, Thomas Bruin. 

But you will tell me she has all the beauties in nature 
united in her person, as ivory in her forehead, diamonds 
in her eyes, etc., etc. 

But Where's the sense, direct or moral 
That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral ? 

If she be a dowdy what can you do with her ? If she 
be a beauty^ what will she do for you ? A man of 
your profession might know the lilies of the field toil 
not, neither do they spin. If she is rich she won't 
buy you. If she is poor I don't see why she should 
borrow you. But, I fear, I am ad\'ising in vain while 
your heart, like a fritter, is frying in fat in Cupid's 
flames. How frail and weak is flesh ! else, sure, so much 
might have kept in one little heart. Had Cupid struck 
the lean or the melancholy I had not lamented ; but 
true Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, merry Jack 
Falstaff, fat Jack Falstaff, beware the foul fiend — they 
call it marriage — beware on't. As what I have ad- 
vanced on the subject of matrimony is absolutely 
unanswerable, I need not tell you where to direct a 



62 ELIZABETH MONTAGU 

letter for me, nor will I, in my pride, declare who I 
am that give you this excellent counsel ; but, that 
you may not despair of knowing where to address 
your thanks for such an extraordinary favour, I will 
promise, that before you find a courtier without deceit, 
a patriot without spleen, a lawyer without quibble, 
a philosopher without pride, a wit without vanity, a 
fool without presumption, or any man without conceit, 
you shall find the true name of 
Your well-wisher. 

And faithful counsellor. 



Elizabeth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland 

A COUNTRY EXCURSION 

TUNBRIDGE, 1745- 

Dear Madam, — I hope your Grace is sensible I should 
write of tener if it was consistent with drinking these 
waters ; but really it is very inconvenient to appl}^ 
a head to any business that cannot think without 
aching. I am not singular in this, for many people 
affirm thinking to be a pain at all times ; I have more 
discretion than to declare as much anywhere but at 
Tunbridge. I have been in the vapours these two 
days, on account of Dr. Young's leaving us ; he was 
so good as to let me have his company very often, 
and we used to ride, walk, and take sweet counsel 
together ; a few days before he went away he carried 
Mrs. Rolt and myself to Tonbridge, five miles from 
hence, where we were to see some fine old ruins ; but 
the manner of the journey was admirable, nor did I, at 
the end of it, admire the object we went to observe 



A STRANGE CAVALCADE 63 

more than the means by which we saw it. . . . First rode 
the Doctor on a tall steed, decently caparisoned in 
dark gray ; next ambled Mrs. Rolt, on a hackney horse, 
lean as the famed Rozinante, but in shape much 
resembling Sancho's ass ; then followed your humble 
servant on a milk-white palfrey, whose reverence for 
the human kind induced him to be governed by a 
creature not half as strong, and, I fear, scarce twice 
as wise as himself. By this enthusiasm of his, rather 
than my own skill, I rode on in safety, and at leisure, 
to observe the company ; especially the two figures 
that brought up the rear. The first was my servant, 
valiantly armed with two uncharged pistols, whose 
holsters were covered with two civil, harmless monsters 
that signified the valour and courtesy of our ancestors. 
The last was the Doctor's man, whose uncombed hair 
so resembled the mane of the horse he rode, one could 
not help imagining they were of kin, and wishing that 
for the honour of the family they had had one comb 
betwixt them ; on his head was a velvet cap, much 
resembling a black saucepan, and on his side hung a 
little basket. Thus did we ride, or rather jog on, to 
Ton bridge town, which is five miles from the Wells. 
To tell you how the dogs barked at us, the children 
squalled, and the men and women stared, would take 
up too much time ; let it suffice, that not even a tame 
magpie or caged starling let us pass unnoted. At 
last we arrived at the King's Head, where the loyalty 
of the Doctor induced him to alight, and then, knight- 
errant-like, he took his damsels from off their palfreys, 
and courteously handed us into the inn. We took 
this progress to see the ruins of an old castle ; but 
first our divine would visit the churchyard, where we 



64 ELIZABETH MONTAGU 

read that folks were born and died, the natural, moral, 
and physical history of mankind. In the churchyard 
grazed the parson's steed, whose back was worn bare 
with carrying a pillion-seat for the comely, fat personage, 
this ecclesiastic's wife ; and though the creature eat 
daily part of the parish, he was most miserably lean. 
Tired of the dead and living bones, Mrs. Rolt and I 
jumped over a stile, into the parson's field, and from 
thence, allured by the sight of golden pippins, we made 
an attempt to break into the holy man's orchard. He 
came most courteously to us, and invited us to his 
apple-trees ; to shew our moderation, we each of us 
gathered two mellow codlings, one of which I put 
into my pocket, from whence it sent forth a smell that 
I uncharitably supposed to proceed from the Doctor's 
servant, as he waited behind me at dinner. The good 
parson offered to shew us the inside of his church, but 
made some apology for his undress, v»^hich was a true 
canonical deshabille. He had on a grey striped calamanco 
nightgown, a wig that once was white, but, b}^ the influence 
of an uncertain climate, turned to a pale orange, a brown 
hat, encompassed by a black hat-band, a band, somewhat 
dirty, that decently retired under the shadow of his 
chin, a pair of grey stockings, well mended with blue 
worsted — strong symptom of the conjugal care and 
affection of his wife, who had mended his hose with 
the very worsted she bought for her own. What an 
instance of exalted friendship, and how uncommon 
in a degenerate age ! 

How rare meet now such pairs, in love and honour 
join'd ! When we had seen the church, the parson 
invited us to take some refreshment at his house, but 
Dr. Young thought we had before enough trespassed 



CANONICAL DESHABILLE 65 

on the good man's time, so desired to be excused, else 
we should no doubt have been welcomed to the house 
by Madame, in her muslin pinners, and sarsanet hood, 
who would have given us some mead, and a piece of 
a cake that she had made in the Whitsun holidays to 
treat her cousins. However, Dr. Young, who would 
not be outdone in good offices, invited the divine to 
our inn, where we went to dinner ; but he excused 
himself, and came after the meal was over, in hopes 
of smoking a pipe, but our Doctor hinted to him that 
it would not be proper to offer any incense but sweet 
praise, to such goddesses as Mrs. Rolt and your humble 
servant. To say the truth, I saw a large horn tobacco 
box, with Queen Anne's head upon it, peeping out 
of his pocket, but I did not care to take the hint and 
desire him to put in use that magnificent piece of 
furniture. . . . 

It was late in the evening before we got home, but 
the silver Cynthia held up her lamp in the heavens, 
and cast such a light on the earth as shewed its beauties 
in a soft and gentle light. The night silenced all but 
our divine Doctor, who sometimes uttered things fit 
to be spoken in a season when all nature seems to be 
hushed and hearkening. I followed, gathering wisdom 
as I went ; till I found, by my horse's stumbling, 
that I was in a bad road, and that the blind was leading 
the blind ; so I placed my servant between the Dr. 
and myself, which he not perceiving, went on in a most 
philosophical strain, to the great amazement of my 
poor clown of a servant, who not being wrought up to 
any pitch of enthusiasm, nor making any answer at 
all to all the fine things he heard, the Doctor wondering 
I was dumb, and grieving I was so stupid, looked round, 

5 



66 ELIZABETH MONTAGU 

declaring his surprize, and desired the man to trot on 
before ; and thus did we return to Tunbridge Wells. 
I am, Madam, 
Your Grace's most affectionate and obedient 

E. Montagu. 



Elizabeth Montagu to the Duchess of Portland 

TAKING THE CURE 

Bath, 1748. 

Madam, — I thank your Grace a thousand times for 

your kind letter ; but why will my Lord Duke persevere 

in the gout ? Pray tell his Grace it is a shame he 

should use a crutch while his grand-mamma trips like 

a roe-buck ; she has been more than parboiled in 

Medea's kettle, and without the help of a Jason too, 

without which few dowagers look so snug. Mrs. 

Honywood has lost her new husband ; the Fates will 

make her a widow, in spite of her haste to be a wife. . . . 

We are too dull here to furnish any news or scandal. 

Whisk, and the noble game of E.O., employ the evening ; 

three glasses of water, a toasted roll, a Bath cake, 

and a cold walk, the mornings. I cannot say I have 

yet dared to cast a hope towards London ; my physician 

says three months will be necessary for me to drink 

the waters. My constitution may perhaps be still 

more tardy ; I have yet been here but about five weeks, 

so half my time is not expired. ... I am forced to dine 

by myself, not being yet able to bear the smell of what 

common mortals call a dinner ; as yet I live with the 

fairies. I am much obliged to those who told your 

Grace I was coming to town, as they said something 

I should be glad to have true ; but here is another 



BATH I REMEDIES 67 

Miss Montagu who is like me, hath a long nose, a pale 
face, thin cheeks, and also, I believe, diets with fairies, 
and she is much better than when she came, and many- 
people give me the honour of her recovery. 
I am. Madam, 
Your Grace's most obliged, most faithful 

E. M. 



Elizabeth Montagu to Elizabeth Carter 

PUBLIC SPECTACLES 

[1760.] 

... I have long been sorry to see the best of our 
sex running continually after public spectacles and 
diversions, to the ruin of their health and understandings, 
and neglect of all domestic duties ; but I own the 
late instance of their going to hear Lord Ferrers's 
sentence particularly provoked me. The ladies crowded 
to the House of Lords to see a wretch brought loaded 
with crime and shame to the bar, to hear sentence 
of a cruel and ignominious death, which, considering 
only this world, cast shame back on his ancestors, 
and all his succeeding family. There was in this case 
everything that could disgrace human nature and 
civil distinctions ; but it was a sight, and in spite of 
all pretence to tenderness and delicacy, they were 
adorned with jewels, and laughing and gay, to see 
their fellow-creature in the most horrid situation, 
making a sad end of this life, and in fearful expectation 
of the commencement of another. These ladies would 
be angry if one could suppose they would delight to 
see the blows and cuts boxers or back-sword champions 
give each other, yet honour, spirit, and courage animate 



68 ELIZABETH MONTAGU 

these combatants ; nothing but a criminal insensibility, 
the most wicked hardness of heart, could support Lord 
Ferrers under his crime and disgrace. Can one wonder 
that mistaken piety can make people spectators of the 
horrors of an auto-da-fe, when the love of spectacles 
can carry women to see a murderer receive sentence ? 
If I had been one of his judges I should have submitted 
to the pain of passing sentence ; but if justice does 
not call one to a scene of punishment, what could 
induce one to be present at it ? You will believe Mrs. 
Modish was there, though she does not mention it. . . . 
Adieu, dear Madam ; believe me most affectionately and 
tenderly yours, 

E. Montagu. 



MARY DEL ANY (1700-1788) 

NEE Granville, was niece of Lord Lansdowne. She married 
first Alexander Pendarves, and secondly Dean Patrick Delany 
(Swift's friend and biographer), who is sometimes alluded 
to in her correspondence as D.D. After his death, Mrs. 
Delany lived in England, where she was well-known for 
her "paper-mosaics." She died at Windsor, and her Life 
and Correspondence was published in 6 vols. (1861-1862). 
The Coronation described in the following letter was that of 
George. II 

Mary Pendarves {Mrs. Delany) to her sister, Mrs. Anne 
Granville 

THE CORONATION 
Somerset House, the day after the Coronation [1727]. 
You require a full and true account of all the pomp 
I saw yesterday. I cannot say my dearest sister is 



QUEEN CAROLINE 69 

unreasonable, but how can I answer your demands ? 
No words (at least that I can command) can describe 
the magnificence my eyes beheld. The book I sent 
you informs you of all the ceremony and manner of 
proceeding. I was a spectator in Westminster Hall, 
from whence the procession begun, and after their 
Majesties were crowned they returned with all their 
noble followers to dine. The dresses of the ladies were 
becoming, and most of them immensely rich. Lady 
Delawar was one of the best figures ; the Duchess of 
Queensborough depended so much upon her native 
beauty that she despised all adornments, nor had 
not one jewel, riband, or pufif to set her off, but every- 
body thought she did not appear to advantage. The 
Duchess of Richmond pleased everybody ; she looked 
easy and genteel, with the most sweetness in her counten- 
ance imaginable. 

The Queen never was so well liked ; her clothes were 
extravagantly fine, though they did not make show 
enough for the occasion, but she walked gracefully 
and smiled on all as she passed by. Lady Fanny 
Nassau (who was one of the ladies that bore up the 
train) looked exceeding well ; her clothes were fine 
and very becoming, pink colour satin the gown (which 
was stiff-bodied), embroidered with silver, the petticoat 
covered with a trimming answerable. Prircess Anne 
and her two sisters held up the tip of the train ; they 
were dressed in stiff-bodied gowns of silver tissue, 
embroidered or quite covered with silver trimming, 
with diadems upon their heads, and purple mantles 
edged with ermine, and vast long trains ; they were 
very prettily dressed, and looked very well. After 
them walked the Duchess of Dorset and Lady Sussex, 



70 MARY DELANY 

two ladies of the bedchamber-in -waiting ; then the 
two finest figures of all the procession — Mrs. Herbert 
and Mrs. Howard, the bedchamber-women -in -waiting, 
in gowns also, but so rich, so genteel, so perfectly well 
dressed, that any description must do them an injury. 
Mrs. Herbert's was blue and silver, with a rich em- 
bossed trimming ; Mrs. .Howard's scarlet and silver, 
trimmed in the same manner, their heads with long 
locks and puffs and silver riband. 

I could hardly see the King, for he walked so much 
under his canopy that he was almost hid from me by 
the people that surrounded him ; but though the 
Queen was also under a canopy, she walked so forward 
that she was distinguished by everybody. The room 
was finely illuminated, and though there was i,8oo 
candles, besides what were on the tables, they were all 
lighted in less than three minutes by an invention of 
Mr. Heideggen's, which succeeded to the admiration 
of all spectators ; the branches that held the candles 
were all gilt and in the form of pyramids. 

We went to the Hall at half-an-hour after four in 
the morning ; but when we came the doors were not 
opened, and we were forced to go into a coffee-house, 
and staid till the doors opened, which at half-an-hour 
after seven they brought us word they were. We then 
salHed forth with a grenadier for a guide ; he conveyed 
us into so violent a crowd that for some minutes I lost 
my breath (and my cloak I doubt for ever). I verily be- 
lieve I should have been squeezed as flat as a pancake if 
Providence had not sent Mr. Edward Stanley to my 
relief, and he, being a person of some authority, made 
way for me, and I got to a good place in the Hall without 
any other damage than a few bruises on my arms 



GEORGE THE SECOND 71 

and the loss of my cloak ; and extreamely frighted with 
the mob, so much that all I saw was a poor recompense 
for what my spirits had suffered. 



Mary Pendarves {Mrs. Delany) to Dean Swift 

MR. pope's accident 

September 2, 1736. 

Sir, — I never will accept of the writ of ease you threaten 
me with ; do not flatter yourself with any .such hopes : 
I receive too many advantages from your letters to 
drop a correspondence of such consequence to me. I 
am really grieved that you are so much persecuted 
with a giddiness in your head ; the Bath and travelling 
would certainly be of use to you. Your want of spirits 
is a new complaint, and what will not only afflict your 
particular friends, but every one that has the happiness 
of your acquaintance. 

I am uneasy to know how to do, and have no other 
means for that satisfaction but from your own hand ; 
most of my Dublin correspondents being removed to 
Cork, to Wicklow mountains, and the Lord knows 
where. I should have made this enquiry sooner, but 
that I have this summer undertaken a work that has 
given me full employment, which is making a grotto 
in Sir John Stanley's garden at North End, and it is 
chiefly composed of shells I had from Ireland. My 
life for two months past has been very like a hermit's ; 
I have had all the comforts of life but society, and 
have found living quite alone a pleasanter thing than 
I imagined. The hours I could spend in reading have 
been entertained by RoUins' " History of the Ancients " 



72 MARY DELANY 

in French : I am very well pleased with it, and think 
your Hannibals, Scipios, and Cyruses prettier fellows 
than are to be met with nowadays. Painting and 
music have had their share in my amusements. I rose 
between five and six, and went to bed at eleven. I 
would not tell you so much about myself if I had 
anything to tell you of other people. I came to town 
the night before last, but if it does not, a few days 
hence, appear better to me than at present, I shall 
return to my solitary cell. Sir John Stanley has been 
all the summer at Tunbridge. 

I suppose you may have heard of Mr. Pope's accident, 
which had liked to have proved a very fatal one. He 
was leading a young lady into a boat from his own 
stairs ; her foot missed the side of the boat ; she fell 
into the middle of the water, and pulled Mr. Pope 
after her ; the boat slipped away, and they were im- 
mediately out of their depth, and it was with some 
difficulty they were saved. The young lady's name 
is Talbot ; she is as remarkable for being a handsome 
woman as Mr. Pope is for wit. I think I cannot give 
you a higher notion of her beauty, unless I had named 
you instead of him. I shall be impatient till I hear 
from you again ; being, with great sincerity, Sir, 
Your most faithful, humble servant, 

M. Pendarves. 

P.S. — I forgot to answer on the other side that part 
of your letter which concerns my sister. I do not 
know whether you would like her person as well as 
mine, because illness has faded her complexion, but 
it is greatly my interest not to bring you acquainted 
with her mind, for that would prove a potent rival, 



A NOSTRUM FOR THE AGUE n 

and nothing but your partiality to me as an older 
acquaintance could make you give me the preference. 



Mrs. Delany to Mrs. Dewes 

DOMESTIC REMEDIES 

Clarges Street, March i, 1743. 
... I am very much concerned for my dear godson, 
but hope before this reaches you that his ague will 
have left him. Two infallible receipts I must insert 
before I proceed further, ist, Pounded ginger, made 
into a paste with brandy, spread on sheep's leather, 
and a plaister of it laid over the stomach. 2ndly. A 
spider put into a goose-quill, well sealed and secured, 
and hung about the child's neck as low as the pit of 
his stomach. Either of these, I am assured, will ease. 
Probatum est. . . . Adieu. 

M. D. 



Mrs. Delany to Mrs. Dewes 

AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY GARDEN 

Delville, July 19, 1744. 
... I wish I could give you an idea of our garden, 
but the describing it puzzles me extremely ; the back 
part of the house is towards a bowling-green, that 
slopes gently off down to a little brook that runs through 
the garden ; on the other side of the brook is a high 
bank with a hanging wood of evergreens, at the top 
of which is a circular terrace that surrounds the greatest 
part of the garden, the wall of which is covered with 



74 MARY DELANY 

fruit-trees and on the other side of the walk a border 
for flowers, and the greatest quantity of roses and 
sweetbrier that ever I saw ; on the right hand of the 
bowling-green towards the bottom is placed our hay- 
rick, which is at present making, and from our parlour- 
window and bedchamber I can see them work at it, and 
have a full view o'f what I have described ; and beyond 
that pleasant meadows, bounded by mountains of 
various shapes, with little villages and countiy-seats 
interspersed and embosomed high in tufted trees : 
to complete the prospect a full view of Dublin harbour, 
which is always full of shipping, and looks at this instant 
beautiful beyond all description : these are the views 
from the house next the gardens. On the left hand of 
the bowling-green is a terrace-walk that takes in a 
sort of a parterre, that will make the prettiest orangery 
in the world, for it is an oval of green, planted round 
in double rows of elm-trees and flowering shrubs, \vith 
little grass walks between them, which will give a 
good shelter to exotics. The terrace I just mentioned 
is bounded at one end by a wall of good fruit, in which 
there is a door that leads to another very large handsome 
terrace-walk, with double rows of large elms, and 
the walk well gravelled, so that we may walk securely 
in any weather. On the left hand the ground rises 
very considerably, and is planted with all sorts of 
trees. About half-way up the walk there is a path 
that goes up that bank to the remains of an old castle 
(as it were) , from whence there is an unbounded prospect 
all over the country ; under it is a cave that opens 
with an arch to the terrace-walk, that will make a 
very pretty grotto ; and the plan I had laid for my 
brother's at Calwich (this being of that shape, though 



THE GARDEN 75 

not quite so large) I shall execute here. At the end 
of this terrace is a very pretty portico, prettily painted 
within and neatly finished without ; you go up a high 
slope to it, which gives it a mighty good air as you 
come up the walk : from thence you go on the right 
hand to the green terrace I mentioned at first, which 
takes in the whole compass of this garden ; in the 
middle, sloping from the terrace, every way, are the 
fields, or rather paddocks, where our deer and our 
cows are kept, and the rurality of it is wonderfully 
pretty. These fields are planted in a wild way with 
forest-trees and with bushes, that look so naturally you 
would not imagine it the work of art. Besides this, 
there is a very good kitchen-garden and two fruit- 
gardens, which, when proper repairs are made and 
they are set in order, will afford us a sufficient quantity 
of everything we can want of that kind. There are 
several prettineses I can't explain to you — little wild 
walks, private seats, and lovely prospects. One seat 
particularly I am very fond of, in a nut grove, and 
" the beggar's hat," which is a seat in a rock ; on the 
top are bushes of all kinds, that bend over : it is placed 
at the end of a cunning, wild path thick-set with trees, 
and it overlooks the brook, which entertains you with a 
purling rill. The little robins are as fond of this seat as 
we are ; it just holds the Dean and myself, and I hope 
in God to have many a tete-d-tete there with my own 
dear sister ; but I have had such a hurry of business 
within doors, and so many visitors, that I have not spent 
half so much time in this sweet garden as I want to do 
. . . I must finish with assuring you of D[ean] D[elany's] 
tender regard and my everlasting love. 

M. D. 



76 MARY DELANY 

Mrs. Delany to Mrs. Dewes 

THE FAT OF THE LAND 

[No Date.] 

How I could run on, but must not. I am called 
to range dishes on my table, which is a long one, and 
consequently easier to set out than a round or oval 
one. The table takes seven dishes in length. Here 
follows my bill of fare for to-day ; is not this ridiculous ? 
But if you wander still unseen, it may serve as an amuse- 
ment in your retirement. 

FIRST COURSE. SECOND COURSE. 

Turkeys endore.^ Partridge. 

Boy led neck of mutton. Sweetbreads. 

Greens, etc. Collared pig. 

Soup. Creamed apple-tart. 

Plum-pudding. Crabs. 

Roast loin of veal. Fricasse of eggs. 

Venison pasty. Pigeons. 

No dessert to be had. 



Mrs. Delany to Mrs. Dewes 

SEDAN-CHAIR DANGERS 

-Pall Mall, January 21, 1746. 
. . . Monday I spent the day at Whitehall setting 
our Queen's jewels, and yesterday we made our ap- 
pearance at Leicester House. The Duchess of Portland 
was in white satin, the petticoat ruffled, and robings 
and facings. She had all her fine jewels on, and looked 
1 Endive. 



A BILL OF FARE 77 

handsomer than ever I saw her look in my Hfe, and 
in my eyes outshone in every respect all the blazing 
stars of the Court. There was not much new finery, new 
clothes not being required on this Birthday. They 
curl and wear a great many tawdry things, but there 
is such a variety in the manner of dress, that I don't 
know what to tell you is the fashion ; the only thing 
that seems general are hoops of an enormous size, 
and most people wear vast winkers to their heads. 
They are now come to such an extravagance in those 
two particulars, that I expect soon to see the other 
extreme of thread-paper heads and no hoops, and 
from appearing like so many blown bladders we shall 
look like so many bodkins stalking about. 

. . . Coming out from the house, as soon as I got 
into my chair, the chairman fairly overturned it, — 
fairly I may say, for not a glass was broken nor was 
I the least hurt ; I own I was a little terrified, and 
Lord Westmoreland, hearing a bustle at the door, found 
me topsy-turvy. He insisted on my getting out of 
my chair, which I did, drank a glass of water, sat half 
an hour in his library, and went on to Lady Frances 
Carteret. . . . 



Mrs. Del any to Mrs. Dewes 

EARLY DEPRAVITY 

Delville, January 26, 1752. 

. . . Yesterday morning sent the coach for Mrs. 

Hamilton, etc. to Finglass ; we all sat down to our 

different work, and the morning past away in a tranquil 

pleasantness. Just before dinner when I was dressed 



78 MARY DELANY 

I walked into the parlour to see that all things were 
as I would have them. I found Master Hamilton sitting 
on the sofa pale as death. I took him by the hand, 
terrified at his looks, and found he was dirty, and 
looked as if he had had a fall ; he could hardly speak, 
but would not own he had. I desired him to go and 
get one of the servants to clean his coat ; he went 
stumbling along, which confirmed me he was hurt, 
and I desired D. D. to follow him and try if he could 
find out what was the matter before his mama saw 
him. In the meantime the ladies came down, and 
I was so confounded and surprised I hardly knew 
what I said ; however, I desired them to sit down, 
dinner being on the table, and D. D. came in with 
Master H., Avho with difficulty seated himself. His 
mother instantly saw something was very wrong, 
ran to him, imagining he had had a fall and had fractured 
his skull, and we ordered William, our butler, to take 
a horse and go instantly for a surgeon, for the boy 
could neither speak nor keep his seat, and his poor 
mother's agony was most affecting. But William 
whispered me, and said, " Madam, Master drank at 
one draught above a pint of claret, and I do believe 
he is fuddled." He had been running in the garden, 
came in chilled with cold, snatched up a bottle at 
the sideboard, put it to his mouth, not considering 
the consequences of his draught. I ran with the utmost 
joy to Mrs. Hamilton, and without mincing the matter 
said, " Be easy, he is drunk " ; for I was so happy to 
find it was not a mortal disorder that I had no manage- 
ment in what I said : and she answered with uplifted 
hands and eyes, " I thank God ! " This circumstance, 
had it not relieved her from a greater distress, would 



MASTER HAMILTON'S MISHAP 79 

have been a great shock to her, but as it happened, 
we all rejoiced, and her wisdom about her boy will 
make her, I don't doubt, turn it to his advantage ; he 
was carried to bed. They could not go home till this 
morning, and Mrs. Hamilton would not let her son 
appear : she told him she had a reason why she would 
not let the Dean and Mrs. Delany see him, and ordered 
him his breakfast in his room. He never was guilty 
of anything like it before, and I hope this will 
so thoroughly mortify him as to make him never guilty 
again. 

I must go and dress, so adieu. 



Mrs. Delany to Mrs. Dewes 

CURRENT FASHIONS 

Whitehall, November 10, 1754. 
. . . Yesterday after chapel the Duchess brought 
home Lady Coventry to feast me, and a feast she was ! 
She is a fine figure and vastly handsome, notwith- 
standing a silly look sometimes about her mouth ; 
she has a thousand airs, but with a sort of innocence 
that diverts one ! Her dress was a black silk sack, 
made for a large hoop, which she wore ^\dthout any, 
and it trailed a yard on the ground ; she had on a 
cobweb laced handkerchief, a pink satin long cloke, 
lined with ermine, mixed with squirrel skins ; on 
her head a French cap that just covered the top of 
her head, of blond, and stood in the form of a butterfly 
with its wings not quite extended, frilled sort of lappets 
crossed under her chin, and tied with pink and green 
ribbon — a head-dress that would have charmed a 



8o MARY DELANY 

shepherd. She has a thousand dimples and prettinesses 
in her cheeks, her eyes a little drooping at the corners, 
but fine for all that. 



Mrs. Del any to Mrs. Dewes 

THE WHOLE DUTY OF WOMAN 

Delville, April 14, i759- 

Monday, Tuesday spent at home, Wednesday morning 
painted and repairing Guido's Madonna and Sleeping 
Child, which by the sun's coming on it is much hurt, 
and shall then finish the copy of the Salvator Rosa I 
began in London : it belongs to the Bishop of Derry — 
it is for the chapel. ... I have been delayed in my return 
backe to my letter by a little importunate robin, who 
would not let me pass by him in the portico walk till 
I had fed him with almonds ; not satisfied with a 
plentiful repast for himself, he insisted on my giving 
him some for his wife, who is sitting on her nest ex- 
pecting him ; sometimes she grows impatient (perhaps 
a jealous fit) and comes herself to see what makes him 
stay so long ; he knows her errand, and crams her bill 
before she can chide him for his delay. . . . 

I am very glad Dr. Shuckleborough has got so plentiful 
a fortune, since he has a heart to do so much good 
with it. You are very wise, my dearest sister, in 
not much encouraging the humour of drollery. I think 
it is to the mind what drawing caracituros are to the 
painting genius, and indulgence that way spoils all the 
fine ideas of real beauty. 

I believe Mrs. Hill has been very careful in the common 
way of the education of her daughters ; they are in 



THE WHOLE DUTY OF WOMAN 8i 

very good order, and civil. What I think L. M. may be 
wanting in is, what few people have attained at her 
age, who have not some real superiority of understanding, 
and a little experience of the manners of the world ; 
nor could she learn from her mother that politeness 
of behaviour and address which is not only just but 
bright. She is pretty, excessively good-natured, and 
happy in her present situation ; but I own I think my 
godson required a wife that knew more the punctilios 
of good breeding, as he is much wanting in them himself, 
and those things should not be wanting to men of 
rank and fortune ; indeed I carry it farther and I think 
that nobody can do so much good in the world who 
is not well-bred as those that are ; in truth it is only a 
modern phrase (according to my notion of that virtue) 
for that " charity " emphatically expressed by St. Paul. 
Yet refining is of little use, where the wife is only con- 
sidered as a head servant in the family, and honoured 
with the head of the table, only that she may have 
all the troubles of carving as well as the care of supplying 
that table, so that her lord may not descend to any 
domestic drudgery. Our Maker created us " helps 
meets," which surely implies we are worthy of being 
their companions, their friends, their advisers, as well 
as they ours ; without those privileges being our due, 
how could obedience to their will be a punishment ? 
Our servants are not punished by being obedient to 
our will ? 

ELIZABETH CARTER (1717—1806) 

WAS the daughter of a Kentish clergyman. She published 
a translation of Epictetus and other books, also a collection 
of poems written by herself. Although a very learned lady, 

6 



82 ELIZABETH CARTER 

with a profound knowledge of Greek and eight other 
languages, she was also domesticated, and did not despise 
feminine occupations. She v/as an intimate friend of Dr. 
Johnson, and an important member of his circle. 

To Catherine Talbot 

RURAL SOCIETY 

[I745-] 

It is neither business nor amusement, but a scruple 
that sometimes takes me about writing nonsense, which 
has prevented me, my dear Miss Talbot, from sooner 
answering your letter. . . . 

. . . Positively I do not know what to say to you, 
unless I tell you the sorrowful scrape I have drawn 
myself into, about love ; bless me ! What business 
had I to talk about things I know nothing about ! 
As my ill stars would have it, I happened to express 
great pity for people under these dolorous circumstances, 
which drew me into a dispute with an antagonist so 
violent, that she distributes the words of fool, nonsense, 
wilful obstinacy, etc., etc. without reserve, amongst the 
whole tribe of lovers, and asserts that all compassion for 
them is misapplied and ridiculous. Not content with the 
first engagement, she constantly attacks me every time I 
see her ; I am not yet quite a convert, but I believe out of 
mere indolence I shall at last give up the point, and leave 
all lovers to hang or drown themselves as they think fit. 

A very imprudent match, which gave rise to all these 
debates, now gives place to the general conversation 
occasioned by the death of Sir John Hales, which 
you may have seen in the news, but probably not his 
character, which was most unaccountably singular : 
with an estate of ten or twelve thousand a year, he 



Sm JOHN HALE'S HOGS 83 

has for a long time shut himself up in a great house, 
without so much as a servant. His children were 
not suffered to come near him, nor anybody else, 
for if ever he espied a human being near the house, 
he immediately ran and locked the door. To avoid 
his being seen or spoken to, the person who went to 
market for him found his orders in a note, in a basket 
in the stable, which when filled was returned to the 
same place ; the only conversible animals he had 
about him were six hogs almost as old as their master, 
whom he fed with great care. The estate round his 
house, which is in a very pretty situation, lays quite 
untenanted and uncultivated ; the horses and other 
cattle run quite wild, and in a state of nature all over 
the grounds. As he had lived, so he died quite alone, 
and was not discovered for some time after his death. 
At the change of affairs which soon took place, it is not 
to be told the consternation and bitter wailings of the 
owls and bats, who had for so many years had quiet 
possession of several of the best rooms, who after having 
reposed for several years on down beds, and velvet 
cushions, are now by the unmerciful heir turned adrift 
into the wide world to seek a cold lodging in a hollow tree. 
What was the true spring of Sir John Hale's strange 
behaviour nobody can tell ; he was said to be a man 
of sense and letters, and sometimes did very generous 
actions though in a strange way : in most parts of his 
character he was a perfect misanthrope. The estate 
descends to his grandson, a very pretty young gentle- 
man, who it is believed will make a much better use 
of it than his predecessor. The originality of the 
character I thought would please you, and can only 
hope I have not made it too long. , . . 



84 ELIZABETH CARTER 

Elizabeth Carter to Catherine Talbot 

"JOSEPH ANDREWS" 

Deal, January i, 1745. 

... I must thank you for the very agreeable enter- 
tainment I have met in reading Joseph Andrews, as 
it was your recommendation that first tempted me to 
enquire after it. It contains such a surprising variety 
of nature, wit, moraUty, and good sense as is scarcely 
to be met with in any one composition, and there is 
such a spirit of benevolence runs through the whole, 
as I think renders it peculiarly charming. The author 
has touched some particular instances of inhumanity 
which can only be hit in this kind of writing, and I 
do not remember to have seen observed anywhere else ; 
these certainly cannot be represented in too detestable 
a light, as they are so severely felt by the persons they 
aifect, and looked upon in too careless a manner by 
the rest of the world. 

It must surely be a marvellous wrongheadedness 
and perplexity of understanding that can make any one 
consider this complete satire as a very immoral thing, 
and of the most dangerous tendency, and yet I have 
met with some people who treat it in the most outrageous 
manner. 

Elizabeth Carter to Catherine Talbot 

SWIFT 

Deal, August 28, 1766. 

... I have never read Swift's last published letters, 

but am glad to find they will help to justify me in always 

having had a more favourable idea of his character 

than most people seemed to think he deserved. There 



SWIFT'S LETTERS 85 

always appeared a rectitude and sincerity in him, 
much superior to the greater number of his contem- 
porary geniuses. His wit, I cannot help thinking, 
was mere distemper, and for many instances of shocking 
impropriety and levity into which it hurried him he 
was perhaps as little accountable as for the delirium of 
a fever. Lord Corke, I think, somewhere speaks of his 
deplorable idiotcy as a judgement ; surely it would 
have been more charitable to have considered it as 
the last stage of a long madness, which very frequently 
terminates in this conclusion. 



Elizabeth Carter to Catherine Talbot 

FRENCH FASHIONS 

Deal, January 1, 1750. 
I am a little ashamed of the savage figure I make 
in your letter, and yet I know not well in this respect 
how to civilise myself. Our great people break through 
all the sacred authority of law, and seem to lose all 
sense of what is serious and decent in pursuit of French 
diversions, and are surrounded by French taylors, 
French valets, French dancing-masters and French 
cooks, while many of their unhappy countrymen are 
starving for want of employment. Our fine ladies 
disgrace " the human shape divine," and become 
helpless to themselves, and troublesome to all the 
world besides, with French hoops, and run into an 
indecent extravagance of dress, inconsistent with all 
rules of sober appearance and good economy. Little 
people always follow the example of their superiors, 
and we misses in the country have our heads equally 
turned with French fashions and French fooleries, v/hich 



S6 ELIZABETH CARTER 

make us break the law, and smuggle for the sake of 
getting French finery. In return for an hundred 
mischiefs, I do not recollect any one French invention 
that has been of any real benefit to this nation, and 
so till you have fairly convinced me that French fashions 
are for the good of my country, I shall not in any wise 
endeavour to rectify in myself the true spirit of the 
true original British crab. 

Elizabeth Carter to Elizabeth Montagu 

CURIOUS ENTERTAINMENTS 

Clarges Street, April i8, 1780. 
. . . Have you read an account in the papers of a 
very extraordinary fete that is soon to be exhibited 
at the Haymarket ? I should be inclined to think 
it a sequel to the bottle conjuror. However, I heard 
last night of a lady who had taken places. Gladiators 
and Olympic games seem an odd kind of entertainment 
for ladies ! But a still more shocking scene is adver- 
tised of the inside of Bedlam. It is a pity the inventor 
should not make an additional scene of the amusing 
spectacle of gibbets and wheels. The schools for 
declamation, I hear, are astonishingly crowded. I dread 
the torrent of impertinence with which they will overun 
the town. Adieu, my dearest friend. 

Elizabeth Carter to Catherine Talbot 

A NEWGATE MOB 

Hill Street, April 9, 1769. 
There is something so seducing, dear Miss Talbot, 
in writing to you by the penny post that I cannot 



ST. SEPULCHRE'S BELL 87 

resist it. Not that I think you would be under any- 
great solicitude about my getting home quietly last 
night in spite of the bad character of the roads ; for I 
reached London in such good time, that if I had been 
robbed I might have sued the county. Perhaps you 
think it would have been worth while to have been 
robbed for the satisfaction of suing the county of 
Middlesex. 

I set out on my city expedition this morning, where 
I met with an adventure which, I believe, you will 
think much more formidable than all the terrors of 
the Richmond road. I was to call on a person in my 
way, to accompany me to the South Sea house ; and 
my nearest route was through Newgate. On going 
up Snow Hill I observed a pretty many people as- 
sembled, but did not much regard them, till, as I ad- 
vanced, I found the croud thicken, and by the time 
I was got into the midst of them I heard the dreadful 
toll of St. Sepulchre's bell, and found I was attending 
an execution. As I do not very well understand the 
geography of Newgate, I thought if I could push through 
the postern I should find the coast clear on the other 
side, but to my utter dismay I found myself in a still 
greater mob than before, and very little able to make 
my way through them. Only think of me in the midst 
of such heat and suffocation, with the danger of having 
my arms broke, to say nothing of the company by 
which I was surrounded with near ;^ioo in my pocket. 
In this exigency I applied to one of the crowd for 
assistance, and while he was hesitating, another man, 
who saw my difficulty, very good-naturedly said to 
me, " Come, madam, I will do my best to get you 
along." To this volunteer in my service, who was 



88 ELIZABETH CARTER 

tolerably creditable and clean considering the corps 
to which he belonged, I most cordially gave my hand ; 
and without any bawling, or swearing, or bustle what- 
soever, by mere gentle, persevering dexterity, he con- 
ducted me, I thank God, very safely through. You 
will imagine that I expressed a sufficient degree of 
gratitude to my conductor, which I did in the best 
language I could find — a circumstance which is never 
thrown away upon the common people, as you will 
acknowledge from the speech which he made me in 
return — " That all he had done was due to my person, 
and all he could do was due to my merit." This high 
strain of complimental oratory is really no embellish- 
ment to my story, but literally what my hero said. 
What a figure he would have made in the days of 
chivalry ! In the midst of all my perplexities, I could 
not help remarking a singular circumstance in the 
discourse of the mob, in speaking of the unhappy 
criminal, that he was to die to-day ; and I scarcely 
once heard the expression of his being to be hanged. 
To trace the cause of this delicacy is a good problem 
for the investigators of human nature. 

As I thought this history of my city adventures might 
amuse Mrs. Talbot and you, I ought to prevent any 
kind concern you might feel from the apprehension of 
its having hurt me, which I do not think it has. I 
was immoderately heated at first getting out of the 
crowd, but it soon went off, and except being extremely 
tired I am about as well as usual to-night, though not 
equal to any more adventures. 



THE MACARONI 89 

Elizabeth Carter to Mrs. Vesey 

WORDS OF PROPHECY 

Clarges Street, April 17, 1772. 

... I know nothing very remarkable going on at 
present, except preparations for a masquerade at the 
Pantheon. Perhaps you may think it one singular 
phenomenon in the present winter that the macaroni 
gentlemen wear artificial nosegays. Surely this species 
of animal is not an English character. Such a com- 
position of monkey and demon, as at one half of the 
day appears to be studying all the tricks of the most 
trifling and contemptible foppery, and in the other 
raving and blaspheming at a gaming-table, must be an 
aggregate of all the follies and all the crimes that a 
worthless head and a profligate heart can collect from 
all parts of the globe. Next winter may perhaps 
furnish a companion to the picture, and exhibit the 
coterie ladies making riots at the play-houses, armed 
with oaken clubs, knocking down watchmen, and 
demolishing lamps — and fainting away at the sight 
of a spider or an earwig. 

Adieu, my dear Mrs. Vesey. I am afraid you will 
think this rainy day disposes me to be censorious. 
Rut in rain or sunshine I am ever most affectionately, 

E. C. 



HESTER CHAPONE (1727-1801) 

WAS the daughter of Thomas Mulso. She was a quick, intelli- 
gent girl, is said to have written a romance at ten, and to 
have studied French, Italian, and Latin at an early age. Her 
marriage in 1761 to Mr. Chapone, an attorney, was followed 
a few months later by widowhood. In 1772 she became 



90 HESTER CHAPONE 

famous by her collection of essays called " Letters on the 
Improvement of the Mind." She was one of the few women 
who contributed to Dr. Johnson's Rambler. Richardson, 
the novelist, was her intimate friend and correspondent. 



To Elizabeth Carter (?) 

RICHARDSON AND FIELDING 

February ii [1751]. 
You enquire about Mr. Richardson and his new work, * 
and I won't take it as a compliment to me that you 
do so. I expect you to be sincerely pleased when I 
tell you that this charming work goes on very fast, 
and will, I hope, make its appearance ere long. Mr. 
R. indeed sometimes talks as if it should not be pub- 
lished during his life ; but I am very sure he will change 
his mind as to that particular. He can't be insensible 
to fame. I believe nobody that could deserve it ever 
was. The only objection I have to his book is, that 
I apprehend it will occasion the kingdom's being overrun 
with old maids. It will give the woman the idea of 
perfection in a man which they never had before, 
and which none of the pretty fellows they are so often 
fond of could ever have furnished them with ; and 
the difference will be so striking between this idea and 
the generality of men, that it must surely make them 
nice in their choice, the consequence of which niceness 
will be a single life to ninety-nine out of a hundred. I 
am at present in a painful uncertainty as to the catas- 
trophe, and will not involve you in the same uneasiness 
by letting you into any part of the story. I do still 
think that it is, if possible, superior to " Clarissa." As I 
ifSiiiCharles Gandison. 



FIELDING'S "AMELIA" 91 

can say nothing higher in its praise I will not say any- 
thing more about it. 

Mr. tells me that you are a friend to Fielding's 

" Amelia." I love the woman, but for the book — it 
must have merit, since Miss Carter and some few more 
good judges approve of it. Are not you angry with 
the author for giving his favourite character such a 
lord and master ? and is it quite natural that she should 
be so perfectly happy and pleased with such a wretch ? 
A fellow without principles, or understanding, with 
no other merit in the world but a natural good temper, 
and whose violent love for his wife could not keep 
him from injuring her in the most essential points, 
and that in circumstances that render him utterly 
inexcusable. Can you forgive his amour with that 
dreadful, shocking monster, Miss Mathews ? Are we 
to look upon these crimes as the failings of human 
nature, as Fielding seems to do, who takes his notions 
of human nature from the most depraved and corrupted 
part of it, and seems to think no characters natural 
but such as are a disgrace to the human species ? Don't 
you think Booth's sudden conversion a mere botch 
to save the author's credit as a moral writer ? And 
is there not a tendency in all his works to soften the 
deformity of vice, by placing characters in an amiable 
light, that are destitute of every virtue except good 
nature ? Was not you tired with the first two volumes ? 
What think you of Mrs. Bennet and her story ? Pray 
let me have your sentiments at large on this book, 
for I am uneasy to know how it comes to pass that 
you like it, and I do not. The last volume pleased me 
very well ; and Doctor Harrison's character is ad- 
mirable ; the scene between Colonel James and his 



92 HESTER CHAPONE 

lady, excellent ; that in which Colonel James's challenge 
comes to the hands of Amelia is extremely affecting ; 
the conversation between the Lord and Doctor Hainson, 
the doctor's letter, and the comments of the bucks 
upon it, I also admire very much. And now, I think, 
I have mentioned all that I can praise in the whole 
book ; but it would take up more paper than I have 
left to point out one half of the passages that disgusted 
me. 

I have begun to read Guthrie's translation of Cicero's 
Epistles to Atticus, and have not been able to forbear 
laughing, more than once, at the excessive sanity of 
your favourite Tully. You see I am in a way to deserve 
your correction, and pray let me have it. I feel that 
I have not so much reverence for great names as most 
people have, and as, I suppose, I ought to have. Don't 
spare me for this fault ; however, I am not so audacious 
as to deliver these heterodox opinions to everybody, 
though I do to you. This may seem strange, as I am 
sure there is nobody whose judgement I revere more 
than yours, but I purposely lay myself open to your 
reproofs, because I know I shall benefit by them. 



Hester Chapone to Elizabeth Carter 

TRAVELLING COMPANIONS 

Canterbury, Wednesday [1751]. 
A thousand thanks to my dear Miss Carter for the 
happiness I enjoyed in a visit which will ever give me 
pleasure in reflection, though at present that pleasure 
is mixed with a painful regret. A thousand thanks to 
her for allowing me to hope for a share in one of the 



POETESS AND HOUSEWIFE 93 

best of human hearts, in a friendship which would do 

honour to the first of women, even to her Miss F ; 

a friendship which I can never deserve, except by the 
high value at which I prize it, and the sincere love 
and veneration with which I return it. 

I owe many thanks also to your very agreeable 
sister, who seems to me to have not only " refined sense," 
but " all sense " and an excellent genius for human 
conveniences, though she is a wicked wit, and laughs 
at me, and despises me in her heart ; yet I can't for 
my life be angry with her for it, but patiently consider 
that it might have pleased God to have made me a 
wit. I saw her, too, exult over me in her housewifely 
capacity ; when I folded up the ginger-bread nuts so 
awkwardly, I saw it was nuts to her ; but I forgive 
her, and hope she will repent before she dies of all 
her uncharitable insults on a poor gentlewoman, that 
never was guilty of more than four poor odes, and 
yet is as careless, as awkward, and as untidy as if she 
had made as many heroic poems as the great and 
majestic Blackmore ! 

You were pleased to be anxious about my journey, 
therefore I must give you some account of it. My 
company was much better than I hoped, and not a 
man midwife amongst them. Imprimis, there was 

Mrs. , sister to Mr. , a very sensible, well-bred 

old gentlewoman, who knew my aunt, and with whom 

I scraped acquaintance. Item, a Mrs. I think, 

was her name, who, I fancy, was one of your party at 
commerce, seeing she was fat and vociferous, and 
looked uncommonly joyous. With her a civil gentleman- 
like sort of a sail-maker (for that, he told me, was his 
trade) from Ratcliffe Cross, very fat and large, with 



94 HESTER CHAPONE 

a leg bigger than my waist. Item, a maid servant, 

going to Lady 's, of a middle size. Item, a very 

fat gentlewoman, taken up very hot at Sandwich, 
and set down again at Wingham, who, in that three 
miles, with the assistance of the sail- maker, had very 
near finished my journey through this mortal life ; but 
her removal restored me to the faculty of breathing, 
and I got to Canterbury without any casualty, save 
breaking my lavender-water bottle in my pocket, and 
cutting my fingers. N.B. — I had like to have been 
overturned upon Sandown, but thought of the Stoic 
philosophy and did not squeak. At Wingham we 
refreshed nature, and repaired our clay tenements with 
some filthy dried tongue and bread-and-butter, and 
some well-mixed mountain wine, by which means, as 
I told you before, I was brought alive to Canterbury. 



Hester Chapone to Elizabeth Carter 

THE INVITATION 

Canterbury, Monday, [1751]. 
It might perhaps be more modest in me, dear Miss 
Carter, to decline your very obliging and most agreeable 
invitation, but truly I am a very weak creature, and 
unable to resist so strong a temptation. My aunt 
has been good-natured enough to give me her excuse 
and permission to leave her for a few days ; and next 
Friday, if convenient to you, I propose stuffing myself 
into that same lumbering conveyance you speak of, 
and embracing my dear Miss Carter between five and 
six in the evening. How shall I regale upon your one 
dish with " the feast of reason and the flow of soul ! " 



MRS. CARTER'S HOSPITALITY 95 

Remember that you have promised me one dish ; if 
I see it even garnished I shall take it as a rebuke for 
my want of modesty in taking you at your first word, 
and without any more ceremony making myself a 
part of your family. I believe indeed it is not quite 
right, but I can't help it, and you will see in this, as 
well as in a hundred other instances when we are much 
together, how great an enemy I am to forms, and 
how dangerous it is to tempt me to anything I have 
an inclination for. I have thought of nothing but 
being with you since I read your letter. What a sweet 
opportunity shall we have of knowing more of each 
other's minds in three days than we should have 
done in three years in the common way of visiting ! 
You see I take it for granted that our satisfaction is 
to be mutual. I believe every civil thing you say 
to me, and every expression of friendship from you to 
be perfectly sincere, without the least allowance for 
politeness, because I wish to believe, and because I think 
my dear Miss Carter is above a compliance with the 
fashions of the world that must cost her the smallest 
deviation from truth. 



HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI (Mrs. Thrale) (1741-1821) 

WAS the daughter of Mr. Salisbury of Carnarvonshire, and 
the wife of Henry Thrale, a wealthy brewer. About 1765 
she first met Doctor Johnson, who became devotedly attached 
to her, and was frequently at Streathara. After her 
husband's death, in 1781, Mrs. Thrale married Signor 
Piozzi, a professional musician. This marriage did not 
please Dr. Johnson, and caused a break in his friendship. 



96 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

Mrs. Piozzi published a collection of " Letters to and from 
Dr. Johnson," and forestalled Boswell with her Johnsonian 
anecdotes. At the mature age of eighty she died of the 
consequences of a broken leg. 



To Dr. Johnson 

FEMININE BLANDISHMENTS 

May 23, 1773- 
I write again, dear Sir, though the time of meeting 
is so near, and should be sorry to think my flattery 
did not please you — if flattery it is, but I call it honest 
praise. Other people make more bustle about your 
merits every day, and you bear them patiently enough : 
pray let my incense-pot have a place among the rest. 
Mr. Thrale swears he found you one morning last week 
in the midst of a heap of men, who, he says, carried 
each a brass-headed cane in his hand, and that they 
were all flattering away a qui mieux mieux. Surely 
there was not in the whole company one to be found 
who uttered expressions of esteem with more sincerity 
than myself ; none of them think you as much exalted 
over the common herd of mortals as I think you, 
and none of them can praise you from a purer motive. 
It is my consolation to have a wise friend, my delight 
to declare that I know him such ; nor is this a time 
when I can afford to lose either delight or consolation. 
Should a man protest, indeed, that a fever-fit would 
be more welcome to him than the detecting me in an 
error, I might reasonably enough begin to be alarmed 
and fear that he was flattering me grossly ; but I 
never did vent my partiality in any terms half as violent 
as those ; and yet, dear Mr. Johnson, who gravely says 




p. 96] 



HESTER LYNCH THRALE 
(MRS. PIOZZi) 

Froyn an eiigravitig by E, Finden, after a 
picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, F.R.A. 



MRS. THRAtE'S INCENSE-POT 97 

that of old Celsus, has the courage to reprove me for 
flattering. 

Well ! I was told this morning, that G O 

speaks very highly of our master up and down ; as I 
believe he hates us all, lie cannot be accused of playing 
the sycophant ; the extorted praise of an enemy, however, 
though in many respects grateful enough, has some- 
what offensive in it too, like the coarse perfume ob- 
tained by chymical operations on a poisonous substance, 
while the natural emanation of a friend's good- will 
resembles the reviving scent of vegetable fragrance. 
I am glad, at all events, that he is forced to speak 
respectfully, and even my poor mother enjoys the 
thought. 

What a loss am I about to endure in her death ! 
Let me hope that your kindness may prompt you to 
soothe the pain, and as far as it is possible to fill up 
the chasm ; though you shall permit me to add my 
firm persuasion that all endeavours will be insufficient. 
If the Emperor of China should take from one of his 
slaves the liberty of ever more tasting water, rice, or 
tea, he would be very ill compensated, poor soul ! 
by the free use of every dainty his master's magnificent 
table could afford him. No companion, however wise, 
no friend, however useful, can be to me what my mother 
has been : her image will long pursue my fancy ; her 
voice for ever hang in my ears : may her precepts 
but sink into my heart ! When fortune is taken away, 
chance or diligence may repair it ; fame likewise has 
been found not wholly irrecoverable. My loss alone 
can neither be restored nor supplied in this world ; 
I will try and turn my best thoughts upon another. 
Meanwhile, a million of things press upon me here, and 

7 



98 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

force me to defend a post scarcely tenable. Give me 
your company, your counsel, and your prayers, for 
I am ever, 

Your truly faithful servant, 

H. L. Thrale. 



Mrs. Thrale to Dr. Johnson 

HUMAN FINGER-POSTS 

August 9, 1775- 

You ask, dear Sir, if I keep your letters — to be sure 
I do ; for though I would not serve you as you said 

you would serve Lady were you married to her — 

live a hundred miles off, and make her write once a 
week (was not it ?) because her conversation and manners 
were coarse, but her letters elegant ; yet I have always 
found the best supplement for talk was writing, and 
yours particularly so. My only reason to suppose 
that we should dislike looking over the correspondence 
twelve or twenty years hence, was because the sight 
of it would not revive the memory of cheerful times at 
all, God forbid that I should be less happy than 
now, when I am perpetually bringing or losing babies, 
both very dreadful operations to me, and which tear 
mind and body both in pieces very cruelly. Sophy is 
at this very instant beginning to droop, or I dream so ; 
and how is it likely one should ever have comfort in 
revising the annals of vexation ? 

You say, too, that I shall not grow wiser in twelve 
years, which is a bad account of futurity ; but if I grow 
happier I shall grow wiser, for, being less chained down 
to surrounding circumstances, what power of thinking 



THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS 99 

my mind naturally possesses will have fair play at 
least. The mother or mistress of a large family is in 
the case of a tethered nag, always treading and sub- 
sisting on the same spot ; she hears and repeats the 
same unregarded precepts ; frets over that which no 
fretting can diminish ; and hopes on, in very spite of 
experience, for what death does not ever suffer her to 
enjoy. With regard to mental improvement, Perkins ^ 
might as well expect to grow rich by repeating the 
Multiplication Table, as I to grow wise by holding 
Watt's "Art of Reading" before my eyes. A finger- 
post, though it directs others on the road, cannot 
advance itself ; was it once cut into coach wheels, who 
knows how far it might travel ? 

When Ferguson made himself an astronomer, the 
other lads of the village were loading corn and pitching 
hay, — though with the same degree of leisure they 
might perhaps have attained the same degree of ex- 
cellence ; but they were doing while he was thinking, 
you see, and when leisure is obtained, incidents, however 
trifling, may be used to advantage ; besides that, 'tis 
better, as Shakespeare says, 

To be eaten up with a rust 
Than scoured to nothing with perpetual motion. 

So if ever I get quiet I shall get happy ; and if I get 
happy I shall have a chance to get wise. Why, wisdom 
itself stands still, says Mr. Johnson, and then how 
will you advance ? It will be an advancement to me 
to trace that very argument, and examine whether it 

has advanced or no. Was not it your friend M 1 

who first said that next to winning at cards the greatest 

1 Perkins was the manager of her husband's brewery. 



loo HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

happiness was losing at cards ? I should feel the 
second degree of delight in assuring myself that there 
was no wisdom to be obtained. Baker's " Reflections 
on Learning " was always a favourite book with me, 
and he says you have all been trotting in a circle these 
two or three thousand years — but let us join the team 
at least, and not stand gaping while others trot. The 
tethered horse we talked of just now would beg to 
work in our mill if he could speak ; and an old captain 
of a ship told me, that when he set the marine society 
boys to run round the hoop for a pudding in fine weather, 
to divert the officers, those who were hardest lashed 
seldom lamented ; but all cried, ready to break their 
hearts, who were left out of the game. Here is enough 
of this, I believe. 

We are all pleased that you intend to come home in 
a chaise. Who should you save sixteen shillings for ? 
and how much richer would your heirs be for those 
sixteen shillings ? Calculation is perpetually opposed 
to the spendthrift ; but if misers would learn to count, 
they would be misers no longer : for how many years 
must a man live to save out of a small income one 
hundred pounds, even if he adopted every possible 
method ? besides the ill-will of the world, which pursues 
avarice more closely, and watches it more narrowly than 
any other vice. 

I have indeed often wondered that the bulk of mankind 
should look on a person who gains money unjustly with 
less detestation than they survey the petty savings of 
him who lives penuriously ; — for the first is in everj^^- 
body's way, and if he excited everybody's hatred, 
who need wonder ? while a hoarder injures no one but 
himself — yet even his heirs abhor him. 



NEEDLESS THRIFT loi 

There is, however, little call, I believe to make sermons, 
against covetousness for the use of dear Mr. Johnson, 
or of his 

Faithful and obedient servant, 

H. L. Thrale. 

Sophy is very sick, and we all wish you would come 
home. 

Mrs. Thrale to Dr. Johnson 

GOSSIP FROM BRIGHTHELMSTONE 

Brighthelmstone, November ii, 1778. 

You are very kind, dear Sir, in wishing us at home, 
and we are very much obliged to you for all your good 
wishes, and all your good help towards our happiness ; 
notwithstanding the worthy parallel you draw between 
yourself and honest Joseph. That letter in "Clarissa" 
was always a favourite of mine — 'tis nature, 'tis truth, 
and, what I delight in still more, 'tis general nature, 
not particular manners, that Richardson represents ;— 
Honest Joseph, and Pamela's old father and mother, 
are translatable, not like Fielding's fat landladies, who 
all speak the Wiltshire dialect — arrow man, or arrow 
woman instead of e'er a man and e'er a woman. Such 
minute attentions to things scarce worth attending to 
are, at best, excellencies of a meaner kind, and most 
worthy the partiality of him who collects Dutch paintings 
in preference to the Italian school. But I dare not 
add another word on this subject, though you are a 
Richardsonian yourself. 

With regard to coming home en lo que toca al rehusnar, 
as Sancho says ; I have leave to be explicit. Burney 
shall bring you on the 26th ; so now we may talk 
about Richardson and Fielding if we will, or of anything 



I02 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

else hut coming home ; for did not wise Ulysses go 
to sleep as soon as he was within sight of his own country 
which he had hunted no less than ten years ? And 
does not the Irishman, when at half the earth's diameter 
from his mistress, cry out. Ah ! my dear Sheelah o'Sheelah, 
were I once within forty miles of those pretty eyes, I would 
never desire to he nearer them in all my life ? So why 
should not I, after fretting to come home ever since 
we came hither, though I never said so — why should 
not I, now the day is fixed — forget and think no more 
on't ? That, says Mr. Johnson, is a bad place of which 
the best good thing is bad weather — yet that is true 
of Brighthelmstone this Autumn ; and last week we 
had some storms that were very sublime. To see the 
ship how she fought, as the clown says, and the sea 
how he flap-dragoned it, was a fine sight to us safely 
posted observers. Suave mart magno, etc. ; and what 
are Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Desmoulines compared to 
the winds and the waves ? There are horn lanthorns 
(you remember) and paper lanthorns, but what are 
they when opposed to the sun and the moon ? Winter 
is coming on apace, that's certain ; and it will be three 
months at least that we shall live without the sight 
of either leaf or blossom ; we will try good fires and 
good humour, and make ourselves all the amend we 
can. / have lost more than Spring and Summer — I 
have lost what made my happiness in all seasons of 
the year ; but the black dog shall not make prey of 
both my master^ and myself. — Much is gone — 

What then remains, but well what's left to use ? 
And keep good humour still, whate'er we lose. 

1 Mr. Thrale. 



MR. TOWN IN THE COUNTRY 103 

The speech in this place is, how we escape the melan- 
choly months that shew a decaying year, because 
there are no leaves to fall, forsooth. But don't you 
know April from November without trees ? Methinks, 
wanting woods to tell the seasons is as bad as wanting 
a weathercock to know which way the wind blows. 

How is Mr. , however, who talks all about taste, 

and classics, and country customs, and rural sports, 
with rapture, which he perhaps fancies unaffected — 
was riding by our chaise on the Downs yesterday, and 
said, because the sun shone, that one could not perceive 
it was Autumn, " for," says he, " there is not one 
tree in sight to shew us the fall of the leaf ; and hark ! 
how that sweet bird sings," continued he, " just like 
the first week in May." " No, no," replied I, " that's 
nothing but a poor robin-redbreast, whose chill, wintry 
note tells the season too plainly, without assistance 
from the vegetable kingdom." " Why, you amaze 
me," quoth our friend, " I had no notion of that.*' 

Yes, Mrs. says, this man is a natural convener, 

and Mrs. is an honourable lady. 

My master is a good man, and a generous, he has 
made me some valuable presents here ; and he swims 
now, and forgets the black dog. 

Mr. Murphy is a man whose esteem every one must be 
proud of ; I wrote to him about Evelina two days ago. 

Mr. Scrafe is the comfort of our lives here. Driven 
from business by ill-health, he concentrates his powers 
now to serve private friends. For true vigour of mind, 
for invariable attachment to those he has long loved, 
for penetration to find the right way, and spirit to pursue 
it, I have seen none exceed him. How much more 
valuable is such a character than that of a polite scholar. 



I04 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

your belles lettres man, who would never have known that 
bees made honey had not Virgil written his Georgicks ? 
Your visiting- ticket has been left very completely 
in Wales. Was it the fashion to leave cards in Prior's 
time ? I thought not — yet he seems to allude to 
the custom when he says, People 

Should in life's visit leave their name ; 
And in the writing take great care 
That all was full, and round, and fair. 

The Welsh, I once told you, would never be un- 
grateful — apropos, I am not myself half grateful enough 
to Mr. Fitzmaurice, for his unsought and undeserved 
civilities towards me, concerning my old house and 
pictures in Wales. — Though you despise them, you do 
not, I am sure, despise me for desiring that he should be 
pleased. So now, do pray help to discharge some of my 
debts of politeness, and write him a pretty letter on his 
son's birth — and get it finished, signed, sealed, and de- 
livered at furthest — before the boy comes of age if you can. 

My friend is dying, sure enough ; but dear 

Mrs. need be in no concern for his future state, 

on the same score she trembled for her husband's : 
do you remember how prettily she congratulated me 
that my mother would go to Heaven, "while poor 

," says she, " God knows what will become of him ! 

for if it were not for the Mayoril he would never have 
known Christmas from Wliitsuntide." Ah, dear Sir, 
and don't you think I prize you more, now I have lost 
my last surviving parent ? — Such a parent ! — Yes, 
yes — one may have twenty children, but amor descendit, 
it is by one's father and mother alone that one is loved. 
I, poor solitary wretch ! have no regard now from 



THE GRATEFUL WELSH 105 

any one, except what I can purchase by good behaviour, 
or flattery, or incessant fatigue of attention, and be 
worked at besides, sick or well, with intolerable diligence, 
or else I lose even you, whom I daily esteem more, 
as I see the virtue of some so diluted by folly, and the 
understanding of others so tainted by vice. I am now 
far from happy, yet I dress and dance, and do my best 
to shew others how merry I am. — It is the Winter robin 
that twitters though, not the Summer throstle that sings. 
I long to come home, but wherever I am, depend on 
my being ever, 

Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient servant, 

H. L. Thrale. 

Mr. Scrafe gives us fine fruit ; I wished you my 
pear yesterday; but then what would one pear have 
done for you ? 

Mrs. Thrale to Dr. Johnson 

AN EVENING AT MRS. MONTAGU'S 

Bath, Friday, April 28, 1780. 

I had a very kind letter from you yesterday, dear 
Sir, with a most circumstantial date. You took trouble 
with my circulating letter, Mr. Evans writes me word, 
and I thank you sincerely for so doing : one might do 
mischief else, not being on the spot. 

Yesterday's evening was passed at Mrs. Montagu's : 
there was Mr. Melmoth ; I do not like him though, nor 
he me ; it was expected we should have pleased each 
other ; he is, however, just Tory enough to hate the 
Bishop of Peterborough for Whigism and Wliig enough 
to abhor you for Toryism. 



io6 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

Mrs. Montagu flattered him finely ; so he had a 
good afternoon on't. This evening we spend at a 
concert. Poor Queeney's i sore eyes have just released 
her ; she had a long confinement and could neither 
read nor write, so my master treated her very good- 
naturedly with the visits of a young woman in this 
town, a tailor's daughter who professes music, and 
teaches so as to give six lessons a day to ladies, at 
five-and-threepence a lesson. Miss Burney says she 
is a great performer ; and I respect the wench for 
getting her living so prettily ; she is very modest and 
pretty-mannered, and not seventeen years old. 

You live in a fine world indeed ; if I did not write 
regularly you would half forget me, and that would 
be very wrong, for I felt my regard for you in my face 
last night when the criticisms were going on. 

This morning it was all connoisseurship ; we went to 
see some pictures painted by a gentleman-artist, Mr. 
Taylor, of this place ; my master makes one every- 
where, and has got a good dawdling companion to ride 
with him now. . . . He 2 looks well enough, but I have 
no notion of health for a man whose mouth cannot 
be sewed up. Burney and I and Queeny tease him 
every meal he eats, and Mrs. Montagu is quite serious 
with him ; but what can one do ? He will eat, I 
think ; and if he does eat I know he will not live ; 
it makes me very unhappy, but I must bear it. Let me 
always have your friendship. I am, most sincerely, 
Dear Sir, your faithful servant. 

H. L. T. 

1 Mrs. Thrale's daughter. 

2 Mr. Thrale, who ultimately sacrificed his life by his devotion 
to good-living. 



QUEENY'S MUSIC-MISTRESS 107 

Mrs. Thrale to Dr. Johnson 

CONFESSIONS AND REFLECTIONS 

November 2, 178 1. 
Dear Sir, — There was no need to be enraged, because 
I thought you might easily forget a transaction not 
at all pleasing to remember ; nor no need that I should 
be enraged if you had indeed forgotten it ; but you 
was always suspicious in matters of memory. Cummins 
don't forget it, however, as I can tell j^ou more at large. 
My health is growing very bad to be sure. I will starve 
still more rigidly for a while, and watch myself carefully ; 
but more than six months will I not bestow upon that 
subject ; you shall not have in me a valetudinary 
correspondent, who is always writing such letters, 
that to read the labels tyed on bottles by an apothe 
cary's boy would be more eligible and amusing ; nor 
will I live like Flavia in Law's " Serious Call," who spends 
half her time and money on herself, with sleeping- 
draughts and waking-draughts and cordials and broths. 
My desire is always to determine against my own 
gratification, so far as shall be possible for my body 
to co-operate with my mind ; and you will not suspect 
me of wearing blisters, and living wholly upon vegetables 
for sport. If that will do, the disorder may be re- 
moved ; but if health is gone, and gone for ever, we 
will act as Zachary Pearce the famous Bishop of 
Rochester did, when he lost the wife he loved so — 
call for one glass to the health of her who is departed, 
never more to return — and so go quietly back to the 
usual duties of life, and forbear to mention her again 
from that time till the last day of it. Susan is exceed- 
ingly honoured, / think, by Miss Seward's enquiries, 



io8 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

and I would have Susan think so too ; the humbler 
one's heart is, the more one's pride is gratified, if one 
may use so apparently Irish an expression, but the 
meaning of it does not lie deep. They who are too 
proud to care whether they please or no, lose much 
delight themselves, and give none to their neighbours. 
Mrs. Porter is in a bad way, and that makes you melan- 
choly ; the visits to Stowhill will this year be more 
frequent than ever. I am glad Watts's " Improvement 
of the Mind " is a favourite book among the Lichfield 
ladies ; it is so pious, so wise, so easy a book to read 
for any person, and so useful, nay necessary, are its 
precepts to us all, that I never cease recommending it 
to our young ones. *Tis a la porte de chacun so, yet 
never vulgar ; but Law beats him for wit ; and the 
names are very happy in Watts somehow. I fancy there 
was no comparison between the scholastic learning of 
the two writers ; but there is prodigious knowledge 
of the human heart, and perfect acquaintance with 
common life, in the " Serious Call." You used to say 
you would not trust me with that author upstairs 
on the dressing-room shelf, yet I now half wish I had 
never followed any precepts but his. Our lasses, 
indeed, might possibly object to the education given 
her daughters by Law's Eusebia. 

That the ball did so little towards diverting you I 
do not wonder : what can a ball do towards diverting 
any one who has not other hopes and other designs 
than barely to see people dance, or even to dance 
himself ? They who are entertained at the ball are 
never much amused by the ball I believe, yet I love 
the dance on Queeny's birthday and yours, where none 
but very honest and very praiseworthy passions — if 



THE THRALE'S BALL 109 

passions they can be called — heighten the mirth and 
gaiety. It has been thought by many wise folks that 
we fritter our pleasures all away by refinement, and 
when one reads Goldsmith's works, either verse or 
prose, one fancies that in corrupt life there is more 
enjoyment — yet we should find little solace from ale- 
house merriment or cottage carousals, what even 
the best wrestler on the green might do, I suppose ; mere 
brandy and brown-sugar liqueurs, like that which Foote 
presented the Cherokee kings with, and won their 
hearts from our fine ladies who treated them with 
spunge biscuits and Frontiniac. I am glad Queeny and 
you are to resolve so stoutly, and labour so violently ; 
such a union may make her wiser and you happier, 
and can give me nothing but delight. 

We read a good deal here in your absence, that is, 
/ do : it is better we sate all together than in separate 
rooms ; better that I read than not ; and better that 
I should never read what is not fit for the young ladies 
to hear ; besides, I am sure they must hear that which 
I read out to them, and so one saves the trouble of 
commanding what one knows will never be obeyed. — I 
can find no other way as well. 

Come home, however, for 'tis dull living without 
you. Sir Philip and Mr. Selwin ^ call very often, and 
are exceedingly kind. I see them always with gratitude 
and pleasure ; but as the first has left us now for a 
month, come home therefore. You are not happy 
away, and I fear I shall never be happy again in this 
world between one thing and another. My health, 

1 Apparently Sir Philip Francis, who had just returned from 
India with a fortune acquired chiefly by his skill at v/hist ; and 
George Selwyn the wit. 



no HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI 

flesh, and complexion are quite lost, and I shall have 
a red face if I live, and that will be mighty detestable 
— a humpback would be less offensive, vastly. 

This is the time for fading ; the year is fading round 
us, and every day shuts in more dismally than the 
last did. I never passed so melancholy a summer, 
though I have passed some that were more painful 
— privation indeed, supposed to be worse than pain. 

Instead of trying the Sortes Virgilianae for our absent 
friends, we agreed after dinner to-day to ask little 
Harriet what they were doing now who used to be 
our common guests at Streatham. Dr. Johnson (says 
she) is very rich and wise. Sir Philip is drowned in 
the water, and Mr. Piozzi is very sick and lame, poor 
man ! Wliat a curious way of deciding ! all in her 
little soft voice. Was not there a custom among the 
ancients in some country — 'tis mentioned in Herodotus, 
if I remember right — that they took that method of 
enquiring into futurity from the mouths of infants 
under three years old ? but I will not swear to the book 
I have read it in. The Scriptural expression, however, 
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, etc., is likely 
enough to allude to it, if it were once a general practice. 
In Ireland, where the peasants are mad after play, 
particularly backgammon, Mr. Murphy says they will 
even, when deprived of the necessaries for continuing 
so favourite a game, cut the turf in a clean spot of 
greensward, and make it into tables for that amuse- 
ment, setting a little boy behind the hedge to call 
their throws for them, and supply with his unconscious 
decisions the place of box and dice. 

Adieu, dear Sir, and be as cheerful as you can this 
gloomy season. I see nobody happy hereabouts but 



CAPTAIN BURNEY iii 

the Burneys ; they love each other with uncommon 
warmth of family affection, and are beloved by the 
world as much as if their fondness were less concen- 
trated. The Captain has got a fifty-gun ship now, 
and we are all so rejoiced. Once more farewel, and do 
not forget Streatham nor its inhabitants, who are all 
much yours — and most so of all. 

Your faithful Servant, 

H. L. Thrale. 

We never name Mr. Newton of Lichfield ; I hope 
neither he nor his fine china begin to break yet — of 
other friends there the accounts get very bad, to be 



ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD (1743-1825) 

THE daughter of the Rev. John Aikin, D.D., a dissenting 
minister, she became the wife of the Rev. Rochemont Bar- 
bauld, also a dissenting minister. The year preceding her 
marriage she published some poems which quickly ran through 
four editions. Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld started a boarding- 
school for boys at Palgrave, Suffolk, which soon became a 
great success. While in Suffolk Mrs. Barbauld published 
" Early Lessons for Children." She also edited a collection of 
British novelists, but her best-known work at the present 
day are her " Hymns in Prose for Children," which have been 
many times reprinted. 

To her brother, Dr. Aikin 

THE NEW BABY 

Palgrave, September g, 1775. 
I give you joy with all my heart, my dear brother, 
on the little hero's appearance in the world, and hope 



112 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD 

he will live to be as famous a man as any of his name- 
sakes. I shall look upon you now as a very respectable 
man, as being entitled to all the honours and privileges 
of a father of three children. I would advise you to 
make one a hero, as you have determined ; another a 
scholar ; and for the third — send him to us, and we 
will bring him up for a Norfolk farmer, which I suspect 
to be the best business of the three. I have not forgot 
Arthur, and send you herewith a story for his edification ; 
but I must desire you to go on with it. When you have 
brought the Shepherd Hidallan a sheet further in his 
adventures, send him back to me, and I will take up 
the pen ; it will be a very sociable way of writing, and 
I doubt not but it will produce something new and 
clever. The great thing to be avoided in these things 
is the having any plan in your head : nothing cramps 
your fancy so much ; and I protest to you I am entirely 
clear from that inconvenience. 

Pray can 3''Ou tell me anything about Crashaw ? 
I have read some verses of his, prefixed to Cornaro's 
treatise, so exceedingly pretty that I am persuaded 
he must have written more, and should be glad to 
see them : I would transcribe the verses, but I think 
you have Cornaro in your library. . . . 

. . . Now I am upon poetical subjects, I must tell 
you that a young clergyman in this neighbourhood 
is writing a play, which he does us the honour to submit 
to our criticism. The subject is, the resistance of the 
Chilese to the Spaniards, by which they recovered 
their independence. I am afraid I gave him very 
wicked advice ; for I recommended it to him to re- 
convert his Indian from Christianity to Heathenism 
and to make his Chiefs a little more quarrelsome. 



A CLERICAL PLAY 113 

I believe the Devotional Pieces have met with the 
fate of poor Jonah, and been swallowed up by some 
whale — perhaps out of pity and compassion, to save 
them in his jaws from the more terrible teeth of the 
critics. St. Anthony, I think, preached to the fishes : 
perhaps I may have the same honour. I should as 
soon inspire a porpoise with devotion as a turtle-eater. 

You must know I find one inconvenience in franks ; 
one never knows when to have done. In a common 
letter you fill your sheet, and there's an end ; but 
vvath a frank you may v\^rite on and on for ever : I 
have tired two pens already. But I will write no more 
to you : I will write to poor Patty, who wants amuse- 
ment, so farewell ! Go and study your Greek ; and 
do not interrupt us. 

And how do you do, my dear Patty ? Let me take 
a peep at this boy. Asleep, is he ? Never mind ; 
draw the cradle-curtains softly and let me have a 
look. Upon my word, a noble lad ! Dark eyes, like 
his mother, and a pair of cheeks ! You may keep him 
a few months yet before you pack him up in the hamper ; 
and then I desire you will send him with all speed ; 
for you know he is to be mine. . . . 

May every blessing attend you and yours, and all 
the dear society at Warrington. 



A. L. Barhauld to Mrs. Eliza Kenrick 

FOREIGN CUSTOMS 

Geneva, October 21, 1785. 
. . . Will you hear how they pass the Sunday at 
Geneva ? They have service at seven in the morning, 

8 



114 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD 

at nine, and at two ; after that they assemble in parties 
for conversation, cards, and dancing, and finish the 
day at the theatre. Did not you think they had been 
stricter at Geneva than to have plays on the Sunday, 
especially as it is but two or three years since they 
were allowed at all ? The service at their churches 
is seldom much more than an hour, and I believe few 
people go more than once a day. As soon as the text 
is named, the minister puts on his hat, in which he 
is followed by all the congregation, except those whose 
hats and heads have never any connection ; for you 
well know that to put his hat upon his head is the 
last use a well-dressed Frenchman would think of 
putting it to. At proper periods of the discourse the 
minister stops short, and turns his back to you, in 
order to blow his nose, which is a signal for all the 
congregation to do the same ; and a glorious concert 
it is, for the weather is already severe, and people 
have got colds. I am told, too, that he takes this 
time to refresh his memory by peeping at his sermon, 
which lies behind him in the pulpit. 

Nobody ought to be too old to improve ; I should 
be sorry if I was ; and I flatter myself I have already 
improved considerably by my travels. First, I can 
swallow gruel soup, egg soup, and all manner of soups, 
without making faces much. Secondly, I can pretty 
well live without tea ; they give it, however, at Geneva. 
Thirdly, I am less and less shocked, and hope in time 
I shall be quite easy, at seeing gentlemen, perhaps perfect 
strangers, enter my room without ceremony when I 
am in my bed-gown. I would not have you think, 
however, I am in danger of losing my modesty ; for 
if I am no longer affected at some things, I have learned 



SUNDAY AT GENEVA 115 

to blush at others ; and I will tell you, as a friend, 
that I believe there is but one indecency in France, 
which is, for a man and his wife to have the same 
sleeping-room. " Est-ce votre chambre, madame, ou 
celle de Monsieur votre epoux ? " said a lady to me the 
other day. I protest I felt quite out of countenance 
to think we had but one. . . . 



A. L. Barhauld to her brother, Dr. Aikin 

FOR AND AGAINST 

Marseilles, December 1785. 
Health to you all — poor mortals as you are, crowding 
round your coal fires, shivering in your nicely closed 
apartments, and listening with shivering hearts to 
the wind and snow which beats dark December ! The 
months here have indeed the same names, but far 
different are their aspects ; for here I am sitting without 
a fire, the windows open, and breathing an air as per- 
fectly soft and balmy as in our warmest days of May ; 
yet the sun does not shine. On the day we arrived 
here, the 5th of December, it did, and with as much 
splendour and warmth, and the sky was as clear and 
of as bright a blue as in our finest summer days. The 
fields are full of lavender, thyme, mint, rosemary, etc. ; 
the young corn is above half a foot high : they have 
not much indeed in this neighbourhood, but from 
Orange to Lisle we saw a good deal. The trees which 
are not evergreens have mostly lost their leaves ; but 
one sees everywhere the pale verdure of the olives 
mixed with here and there a grove, or perhaps a single 
tree of cypress, shooting up its graceful spire of a deeper 



Ii6 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD 

and more lively green far above the heads of its humbler 
but more profitable neighbours. The markets abound 
with fresh and dried grapes, pomegranates, oranges 
with the green leaves, apples, pears, dried figs, and 
almonds. They reap the corn here the latter end of 
May or the beginning of June. The gathering of the 
olives is not yet finished : it yields to this country 
its richest harvest. There are likewise a vast number 
of mulberry trees, and the road in many places is 
bordered v/ith them ; but they are perfectly naked at 
present. Marseilles is, however, not without bad 
weather. The vent de hiss, they say, is penetrating ; 
and for this last fortnight they have had prodigious 
rains, with the interruption of only a few days ; so 
that the streets are very dirty and the roads broken 
up. But they say this is very extraordinary, and 
that if they pass two days without seeing a bright 
sun they think Nature is dealing very hardly with 
them. I will not, however, boast too much over you 
from these advantages ; for I am ready to confess the 
account may be balanced by many inconveniences, 
little and great, which attend this favoured country. 
And thus I state my account : 

ADVANTAGES OF TRAVELLING PER CONTRA 

A July sun and a southern Flies, fleas, and all Pharaoh's 
breeze. plague of vermin. 

Figs, almonds, etc. etc. No tea, and the very name 

of a tea-kettle unknown. 

Sweet scents in the fields. Bad scents within doors. 

Grapes and raisins. No plum-pudding. 

Coffee as cheap as milk. Milk as dear as coffee. 

Wine a demi-sous the bottle. Bread three sous the half- 
penny roll. 



FOREIGN TRAVEL 117 

Proven9al songs and laughter. Provencal roughness and 

scolding. 

Soup, salad and oil. No beef, no butter. 

Arcs of triumph, fine Dirty inns, heavy roads, 

churches, stately palaces. uneasy carriages. 

A pleasant and varied But many, many a league 

country. from those we love. 



A. L. Barhauld to Mrs. Carr 

A TRAGEDY 
Pit Cot, near Bridgend, July 18, 1797. 
. . . We flattered ourselves with seeing some of the 
beauties of South Wales in coming hither, but we were 
completely disappointed by the state of the weather. 
This country is bleak and bare, with fine views of the 
sea, and a bold, rocky coast, with a beach of fine hard 
sand. We have been much pleased with watching 
the coming in of the tide among the rocks, against 
which it dashes, forming columns of spray twenty 
and thirty feet high, accompa.nied with rainbows and 
with a roar like distant cannon. There are fine caverns 
and recesses among the rocks ; one particularly which 
we took the opportunity of visiting yesterday, as it 
can only be entered at the ebb of the spring tides. 
It is very spacious, beautifully arched, and composed 
of granite rocks finely veined with alabaster, which 
the imagination may easily form into a resemblance 
of a female figure, and is of course the Nereid of the 
grotto. We wished to have stayed longer ; but our 
friend hurried us away, lest the tide should rush in, 
which it is supposed to do from subterraneous caverns, 



ii8 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD 

as it fills before the tide covers the sand of the adjacent 
beach. I was particularly affected by the fate of 
two lovers, a young lady and gentleman from Clifton, 
whose friends were here for the sake of sea-bathing. 
They stole out early one morning by themselves, and 
strolled along the beach till they came to this grotto, 
which, being then empty, they entered. They admired 
the strata of rock leaning in different directions : they 
admired the encrustation which covers part of the 
sides, exactly resembling honeycomb, various shells 
imbedded in the rock, the sea-anemone spreading its 
purple fringe — an animal flower clinging to the rocks. 
They admired the first efforts of vegetation in the 
purple and green tints occasioned by the lichens and 
other mosses creeping over the bare stone. They 
admired these together ; they loved each other the 
more for having the same tastes, and they taught 
the echoes of the cavern to repeat the vows which 
they made of eternal constancy. In the meantime 
the tide was coming in : of this they were aware, as 
they now and then glanced their eye on the waves, 
which they saw advancing at a distance ; but not 
knowing the peculiar nature of the cavern, they thought 
themselves safe ; when on a sudden, as they were in 
the farthest part of it, the waters rushed in from fissures 
in the rock with terrible roaring. They climbed from 
ledge to ledge of the rocks — but in vain : the water 
rose impetuously, and at length filled the whole grotto. 
Their bodies were found the next day, when the tide 
was out, reclining on a shelf of rock — he in the tender 
attitude of supporting her, in the very highest accessible 
part, and leaning his own head in her lap — so that he 
must have died first. Poor lovers ! If, however, you 



DAVID GARRICK 119 

should be too much grieved for them, you may impute 
the whole, if you please, to a waking dream which I 
had in the grotto. 

CATHERINE CLIVE (1711-1785) 

THE daughter of William Rafter, a Kilkenny lawyer. She 
made her debut at Drury Lane in 1728 as a comedy actress, 
and continued to play at that theatre till she quitted the 
stage in 1769. David Garrick was for many years manager 
of old Drury during her career. She was a great favourite 
of Dr. Johnson, who especially admired her acting. 

To David Garrick ^ 

AN APPRECIATION 

Twickenham, June 23, 1776. 
Dear Sir, — Is it really true that you have put an 
end to the glory of Drury Lane Theatre ? // it is so, 
let me congratulate my dear Mr. and Mrs. Garrick on 
their approaching happiness. I know what it will be : 
you cannot yet have an idea of it ; but if you should 
still be so wicked not to be satisfied with that unbounded, 
uncommon degree of fame you have received as an 
actor, and which no other actor ever did receive — 
nor no other actor ever can receive ; — I say, if you 
should still long to be dipping your fingers in their 
theatrical pudding (now without plums), you will be 
no Garrick for the Pivy. In the height of public admira- 
tion for you, when you were never mentioned with 
any other appellation but Mr. Garrick, the charming 
man, the fine fellow, the delightful creature, both by 
men and ladies ; when they were admiring everything 

i The following letters are reprinted by kind permission of Mr. 
Percy Fitzgerald, from his Life of Kitty Clive. 



I20 CATHERINE CLIVE 

you did and everything you scribbled, at this very 
time the Pivy was a living witness that they did not 
know, nor could they be sensible of, half your perfections. 
I have seen you with your magical hammer in your 
hand, endeavouring to beat your ideas into the heads 
of creatures who had none of their own. I have seen 
you with lamb-like patience endeavouring to make 
them comprehend you, and I have seen you when 
that could not be done. I have seen your lamb turned 
into a lion ; by this your great labour and pains the 
public was entertained ; they thought they all acted 
very fine — they did not see you pull the wires. 

There are people now on the stage to whom you 
gave their consequence ; they think themselves very 
great. Now let them go on in their new parts v/ithout 
your leading-strings, and they will soon convince the 
world what this genius is. I have always said this 
to everybody, even when your horses and mine were 
in their highest prancing. While I was under your 
control I did not say half the fine things I thought 
of you, because it looked like flattering, and you know 
your Pivy was always proud, because I thought you 
did not like me then, but now I am sure you do, which 
made me send this letter. 



Catherine Clive to David Garrick 

PLAYER V. MANAGER 

February 19, 1768. 
Sir, — I am sorry to give you this trouble, but I really 
cannot comprehend what you mean by saying you 
expected I should thanke the managers for their tender- 



KITTY CLIVE'S BENEFIT 121 

ness to me. I have allways been greatfuU to every 
one who has obliged me, and if you will be so good 
as to point out the obligation I have to you and Mr. 
Lacy, I shall have great pleasure in acknowledging 
them. You tell me you have done all you can for 
me, and you can do more. I don't know how to under- 
stand that. Any one who sees your letter would suppose 
I was kept at your Theatre out of Charitey. If you 
still look over the number of times I have play'd this 
season, you must think I have desarv'd the monney 
you give me. You say you give me the best day in 
the week. I am sorry to say I cannot be of your opinion. 
St. Patrick's day is the very worst to me that can be. 
Mrs. Yates's might be the strongest Benefit, as her 
interest and m.ine clash in the Box's. As to my quareling 
3^ou are under a very great misstake. There is nothing 
I dread so much, I have not spirits for that, tho' have 
for acting. You say that you have fixt the day, and 
have drawn a line under it that I may be sure I can 
have no other ; therefore I must take it. But I must 
think it (and so will every impartial person) very hard 
that Mrs. Dancer should have her Benefit before IMrs. 
Clive. You may depend upon having no further 
trouble with me. Indeed, I flattered myself that as 
the greatest part was past of the season, and I had 
done everything you asked of me, in playing a very 
insignificant part on purpose to please you, / say, I 
was in hope's it would have ended as it had gone so 
far, without any unkindness. But I shall say no more 
than that, 

I am, Sir, 

Your most humble servant, 

C. Clive. 



122 CATHERINE CLIVE 

Catherine Clive to David Garrick 

JEALOUSY 

[1774 ?]. 
I schr earned at your parish business. I think I see 
you in your churchwardenship quareUng for not making 
those brown loaves big enough ; but for God's sake 
never think of being a justice of the peace, for the 
people will quarrel on purpose to be brought before you 
to hear you talk, so that you may have as much business 
upon the lawn as you had upon the boards. If I 
should live to be thawed, I will come to town on purpose 
to kiss you ; and in the summer, as you say, I hope 
we shall see each other ten times as often, when we 
will talk, and dance, and sing, and send our heares 
laughing to their beds. . . . 

O jealousey, thou raging pain, 
Where shall I find my piece again. 

I am in a great fuss. Pray what is the meaning 
of a quarter of a hundred Miss Moors coming purring 
about you with their poems and plays and romances ; 
what, is the Pivy to be roused, and I don't understand 
it ? Mrs. Garrick has been so good to say she would 
spare me a little corner of your heart, and I can tell 
the Miss Moors they shall not have one morsel of it. 
What do they pretend to take it by force of lines ? If 
that's the case I shall write such verses as shall make 
them stare againe, and send them to Bristol with a 
flea in their ear ! Here have I two letters, one and 
not one line, nay, you write to the Poulterer's woman 
rather than the Pivy, and order her to bring me the 
note ; and the poor creature is so proud of a letter 



WALNUTS 123 

from you that it has quite turn'd her head, and instead 
of picking her Poultry ; she is dancing about her shop, 
with a wisp of straw in her hand, like the poor Ophelia, 
singing : 

How shou'd I your true love know ? 

And I must tell you, if you don't write to me directly 
and tell me a great deal of news, I believe I shall sing 
the next of the mad songs myself. I see your run 
always goes on, which gives me great pleasure — I shall 
be glad if you will lend it me (Colley Gibber). My love 
to my dear Mrs. Garrick. I suppose you have had a 
long letter of thanks from Miss Pope. I have had 
one from her all over transport. I feel vast happiness 
about that afair, and shall ever remember it as a great 
obligation you have confered on your, 

PivY Clive. 



Catherine Clive to Miss Pope 

MULTUM IN PARVO 

Twickenham, October 17, 1784. 
My dear Popy, — The jack I must have, and I suppose 
the cook will be as much delighted with it as a fine 
lady with a birthday suit. I send you walnuts, which 
are fine, but pray be moderate in your admiration, 
for they are dangerous dainties. John has carried 
about to my neighbours above six thousand, and he 
tells me there are as many still left ; indeed it is a most 
wonderful tree. Mrs. Prince has been robbed at two 
o'clock, at noon, of her gold watch and four guineas, 
and at the same time our two justices of sixpence 



124 CATHERINE CLIVE 

a-piece ; they had Hke to be shott, for not having 
more. Everybody enquires after you and I deliver 
your compts. Poor Mrs. Hart is dead — well-spoken- 
of by everybody. I pity the poor old Weassel that is 
left behind. 

Adieu, my dear Popy. 

Yours ever, 

C. Clive. 

The jack must carry six or seven- and-twenty pounds. 
The waterman shall bring the money when I know 
w^hat. 



HANNAH MORE (1745-1833) 

FOURTH daughter of a Bristol village schoolmaster, who at 
an early age showed her literary tastes and at seventeen pub- 
lished a drama. Coming to London, she met Johnson, the 
Garricks, Burke, and other lions of the day, but later her 
religious views were the m.eans of her withdrawal from society 
and her subsequent devotion to the poor. Her works com- 
prise, among others, a novel, " Caelebs in Search of a Wife," 
"Essays," and two tragedies, which were both acted; also 
her once very popular " Sacred Dramas." 



To her Sister 
garrick's funeral 

Adelphi, February 2, 1779. 
We (Miss Cadogan and myself) went to Charing 
Cross to see the melancholy procession. Just as we 
got there we received a ticket from the Bishop of 
Rochester to admit us into the Abbey. No admittance 
could be obtained but under his hand. We hurried 



CARRICK'S FUNERAL 125 

away in a hackney coach, dreading to be too late. The 
bell of St. Martin's and the Abbey gave a sound that 
smote upon my very soul. When we got to the cloisters 
we found multitudes striving for admittance. We 
gave our ticket and were let in ; but, unluckily, we 
ought to have kept it. We followed the man, who 
unlocked a door of iron, and directly closed it upon us 
and two or three others, and we found ourselves in a 
Tower, with a dark winding staircase, consisting of 
half a hundred stone steps. When we got to the top 
there was no way out ; we ran down again, called, and 
beat the door, till the whole pile resounded with our 
cries. Here we stayed half an hour in perfect agony ; 
we were sure it would be all over : nay, we might never 
be let out ; we might starve — we might perish ! At 
length our clamours brought an honest man, a guardian 
angel I then thought him. We implored him to take 
care of us, and get us into a part of the Abbey whence 
we might see the grave. He asked for the bishop's 
ticket ; we had given it away to the wrong person ; 
and he was not obliged to believe we ever had one ; 
yet he saw so much truth in our grief, that though we 
were most shabby, and a hundred fine people were 
soliciting the same favour, he took us under each arm, 
carried us safely through the crowd, and put us in a 
little gallery directly over the grave, where we could 
see and hear everything as distinctly as if the Abbey 
had been a parlour. Little things sometimes affect the 
mind strongly ! We were no sooner recovered from 
the fresh bursts of grief than I cast my eyes, the first 
thing, on Handel's monument, and read the scroll 
in his hand, " I know that my Redeemer liveth." 
Just at three the great doors burst open with a noise 



126 HANNAH MOR^ 

that shook the roof : the organ struck up, and the 
whole choir, in strains only less solemn than the arch- 
angel's trump, began Handel's fine anthem. The whole 
choir advanced to the grave, in hoods and surplices, 
singing all the way ; then Sheridan as chief mourner ; 
then the body — alas ! whose body ? with ten noblemen 
and gentlemen, pall bearers ; then the rest of the friends 
and mourners ; hardly a dry eye — the very players, 
bred to the trade of counterfeiting, shed genuine tears. 

As soon as the body was let down, the bishop began 
the service, which was read in a low but solemn and 
devout manner. Such an awful stillness reigned that 
every word was audible. How I felt it ! Judge if 
my heart did not assent to the hope that the soul 
of our dear brother now departed was in peace. And 
this is all of Garrick ! Yet a very little while, and 
he shall " say to the worm, Thou art my brother : and 
to corruption. Thou art my mother and my sister." 
So passes away the fashion of this world. And the 
very night he was buried the play-houses were as full, 
and the Pantheon was as crowded,, as if no such thing 
had happened ; nay, the very mourners of the day 
partook of the revelries of the night — the same night, 
too! 

As soon as the crowd had dispersed, our friend came 
to us with an invitation from the bishop's lady, to 
whom he had related our disaster, to come into the 
deanery. We were carried into her dressing-room, 
but, being incapable of speech, she very kindly said 
she would not interrupt such sorrow, and left us : but 
sent up wine, cakes, and all manner of good things, 
which were really well-timed. I caught no cold, not- 
withstanding all I went through. 



CELEBRITIES 12/ 

On Wednesday night we came to the Adelphi — to 
this house ! She ^ bore it with great tranquillity, but 
what was my surprise to see her go alone into the 
chamber and bed in which he had died that day fort- 
night. She had a delight in it beyond expression. I 
asked her the next day how she went through it ? She 
told me, very well ; that she first prayed with great 
composure, then went and kissed the dear bed, and 
got into it with a sad pleasure. 



Hannah More to a relative 

GENERAL PAOLI 

Hampton, 1782. 
When I was in town last week we had another last 
breakfast at St. James's. There I found Lord Mon- 
boddo, Mrs. Carter, that pleasantest of the peerage. 
Lord Stormont, and Count Marechale, a very agreeable 
foreign nobleman, and a worthy man ; he has almost 
promised to put the story of our poor insane Louisa 
into German for me. I was three times with Mrs. 
Montague the week I stayed in town. We spent one 
evening with her and Miss Gregory alone, to take leave 
of the Hill Street house ; and you never saw such an 
air of ruin and bankruptcy as everything around us 
wore. We had about three feet square of carpet, and 
that we might all put our feet upon it we were obliged 
to sit in a circle in the middle of the room, just as if 
we were playing at " hunt the slipper ! " She was full 
of encomiums of Bristol, and of every one she saw 
there. She is now settled in Portman Square, where I 

1 Mrs. Garrick. 



128 HANNAH MORE 

believe we were among the first to pay our compliments 
to her. I had no conception of anything so beautiful. 
To all the magnificence of a very superb London house 
is added the scenery of a country retirement. It is so 
seldom that anything superb is pleasant, that I was 
extremely struck with it. I could not help looking 
with compassion on the amiable proprietor shivering 
at a breeze, and who can at the best enjoy it so very 
little a while. She has, hovv^ever, my ardent wishes 
for her continuance in a world to which she is an 
ornament and a blessing. . . . 

... At a party the other day I was placed next 
General Paoli, and as I have not spoken seven sentences 
of Italian these seven years, I have not that facility 
in expressing myself which I used to have. I therefore 
begged hard to carry on the conversation in French. 
By-the-bye, I believe I never told you that Paoli is my 
chief beau and flirt this winter. We talk whole hours. 
He has a general good taste in the belles lettres and is 
fond of reciting passages from Dante and Aristotle. 
He is extremely lively when set a-going ; quotes from 
Shakespeare, and raves in his praise. He is particularly 
fond of Romeo and Juliet ; I suppose, because the 
scene is laid in Italy. I did not know he had such very 
agreeable talents ; but he will not talk in English, and 
his French is mixed with Italian. He speaks no 
language with purity. 

On Monday I was at a very great assembly at the 
Bishop of St. Asaph's. Conceive to yourself one 
hundred and fifty or two hundred people met together, 
dressed in the extremity of the fashion ; painted as 
red as bacchanals, poisoning the air with perfumes ; 
treading on each other's gowns ; making the crowd 



GENERAL PAOLI 129 

they blame ; not one in ten able to get a chair ; pro- 
testing they are engaged to ten other places ; and 
lamenting the fatigue they are not obliged to endure ; 
ten or a dozen card-tables crammed with dowagers 
of quality, grave ecclesiastics and yellow admirals : and 
you have an idea of the assembly. I never go to these 
things when I can possibly avoid it, and stay, when 
there, as few minutes as I can. 



Hannah More to Mr. Wilherforce 

SPIRITUAL PRIVILEGES IN SOMERSET 

George Hotel, Cheddar, 1789. 
Dear Sir, — Though this is but a romantic place, as 
my friend Mathew well observed, yet you would laugh to 
see the bustle I am in. I was told we should meet with 
great opposition if I did not try to propitiate the chief 
despot of the village, w^ho is very rich and very brutal ; 
so I ventured into the den of this monster, in a country 
as savage as himself, near Bridgewater. He begged 
I would not think of bringing any religion into the 
country : it was the worst thing in the world for the 
poor, for it made them lazy and useless. In vain did 
I represent to him that they would be more industrious 
as they were better principled ; and that, for my 
own part, I had no selfish views in what I was doing. 
He gave me to understand that he knew the world 
too well to believe either the one or the other. Some- 
what dismayed to find that my success bore no pro- 
portion to my submissions, I was almost discouraged 
from more visits ; but I found that friends must be 
secured at all events, for that if these rich savages set 

9 



ISO HANNAH MORE 

their faces against us, and influenced the poor people, 
it was clear that nothing but hostilities would ensue ; 
so I made eleven more of these agreeable visits, and 
as I improved in the art of canvassing, had better 
success. Miss Wilberforce would have been shocked 
had she seen the petty tyrants whose insolence I stroked 
and tamed, the ugly children I fondled, the pointers 
and spaniels I caressed, the cider I commended, and 
the wine I swallowed. After these irresistible flatteries, 
I inquired of each if he could recommend to me a house ; 
and said that I had a little plan, which I hoped would 
secure their orchards from being robbed, their rabbits 
from being shot, their poultry from being stolen, and 
which might lower the poor-rates. If effect be the 
best proof of eloquence, then mine was a good speech, 
for I gained at length the hearty concurrence of the 
whole people, and their promise to discourage or favour 
the poor in proportion as they were attentive or negligent 
in sending their children. Patty, who is with me, 
says she has good hope that the hearts of some of these 
rich poor v/retches may be touched ; they are at present 
as ignorant as the beasts that perish, intoxicated every 
day before dinner, and plunge in such vices as make 
me begin to think London a virtuous place. By their 
assistance I procured immediately a good house, which, 
when a partition is taken down, and a window added, 
will receive a great number of children. The house, 
and an excellent garden of almost an acre of ground, 
I have taken' at once for six guineas and a half per 
year. I have ventured to take it for seven years ; 
there's courage for you ! It is to be put in order im- 
mediately, " for the night cometh ; " and it is a 
comfort to think that, though I may be dust and ashes 



HANNAH xMORE EVANGELISING 131 

in a few weeks, yet by that time this business will be 
in actual motion. I have written to different manu- 
facturing towns for a mistress, but can get nothing 
hitherto. As to the mistress for the Sunday-school, and 
the religious part, I have employed Mrs. Easterbrook, 
of whose judgment I have a good opinion. I hope 

Miss W will not be frightened, but I am afraid 

she must be called a Methodist. 

I asked the farmers if they have no resident curate ; 
they told me they had a right to insist on one, which 
right, they confessed, they had never ventured to 
exercise, for fear their tithes should be raised ! I 
blushed for my species. The Glebe House is good for 
my purpose. The vicarage of Cheddar is in the gift of 
the Dean of Wells ; the value nearly fifty pounds per 

annum. The incumbent is a Mr. R , who has 

something to do, but I cannot here find out what, in 
the University of Oxford, where he resides. The curate 
lives at Wells, twelve miles distant. They have only 
one service a week, and there is scarcely an instance 
of a poor person being visited, or prayed with. The 
living of Axbridge belongs to the prebendary of Wivelis- 
combe, in the diocese of Wells. The annual value 
is about fifty pounds. The incumbent about sixty 
years of age. The prebend to which this rectory 
belongs is in the gift of the Bishop of Bath and Wells. 

Mr. G is intoxicated about six times a week, and 

very frequently is prevented from preaching by two 

black eyes, honestly earned by fighting. Mr. M 

is a middle-aged man : of his character they know 
nothing. The curate a sober young man. 

Your much obliged, 

H. More. 



132 ANNA SEWARD 

ANNA SEWARD (1747-1809) 

THE " Swan of Lichfield," was the daughter of a Canon of 
Lichfield. After her father's death Miss Seward lived on 
in that city at the bishop's palace, where she was one of the 
chief members of a self-admiring coterie. Southey, Darwin, 
Thomas Day, and Walter Scott were her correspondents, and 
the Wizard of the North, much to his embarrassment, was 
named in her will as literary executor. 



LAST DAYS OF DR. JOHNSON 

[Lichfield] October 29, 1784. 

I have lately been in the almost daily habit of con- 
templating a very melancholy spectacle. The great 
Johnson is here, labouring under the paroxysms of a 
disease which must speedily be fatal. He shrinks from 
the consciousness with the extremest horror. It is 
by his repeatedly expressed desire that I visit him often : 
yet I am sure he neither does, nor ever did feel much 
regard for me ; but he would fain escape, for a time, 
in any society, from the terrible idea of his approaching 
dissolution. I never would be awed by his sarcasms, 
or his fro^vns, into acquiescence wdth his general in- 
justice to the merits of other writers, with his national 
or party aversions ; but I feel the truest compassion 
for his present sufferings, and fervently wish I had 
power to relieve them. 

A few days since I was to drink tea with him, by his 
request, at Mrs. Porter's. When I went into the 
room he was in deep but agitated slumber, in an arm- 
chair. Opening the door with that caution due to 
the sick, he did not awaken at my entrance. I stood 
by him several minutes, mournfully contemplating the 



LAST DAYS OF DR. JOHNSON 133 

temporary suspension of those vast intellectual powers 
which must, so soon, as to this world, be eternally 
quenched. 

Upon the servant entering to announce the arrival 
of a gentleman of the university, introduced by Mr. 
White, he awoke with convulsive starts ; but rising, 
with more alacrity than could have been expected, he 
said, " Come, my dear lady, let you and I attend these 
gentlemen in the study." He received them with more 
than usual complacence ; but whimsically chose to 
get astride upon his chair-seat, with his face to its 
back, keeping a trotting motion as if on horseback ; 
but in this odd position he poured forth streams of 
eloquence, illumined by frequent flashes of wit and 
humour without any tincture of malignity. That 
amusing part of this conversation which alluded to 
the learned Pig and his demi-rational exhibitions, I 
shall transmit to you hereafter. 



Anna Seward to Lady Marianne Carnegie 

AN ELEGANT EPISTLE 

Lichfield, March 21, 1785. 
Your Ladyship's kind attention and most welcome 
letter highly gratifies, obliges, and honours me. Since 
I learned the melancholy tidings of dear and honoured 
Lady Northesk's death, I felt what I believed an 
unavailing desire to obtain more particular intelligence 
than I had the means of acquiring concerning the 
welfare and situation of her lord and of sweet Lady 
Marianne, whose virtues, and graces were in their bud 
when I had the honour of passing a week in Lady 



134 ANNA SEWARD 

Northesk's, Lady Marianne's and Mrs. Scott's society 
at Lichfield, in the house of Dr. Darwin. Mournful was 
that pleasure, because of the fearful balance in which 
then hung the valuable life of Lady Northesk. Ah ! 
with what delight did I learn, from her condescending 
letters to me, of the return of her health, by the pre- 
scriptions of Dr. Darwin, after those of the London 
and Bath physicians had failed ! Sincerely did I 
deplore the sudden blight upon those hopes of her 
long existence which were inspired by that unexpected, 
that wonderful recovery. 

To be thus engagingly sought, through motives of 
filial piety by a daughter of hers, gives me satisfaction, 
which is not the less poignant for being shaded over 
by a sense of mournful gratitude to the eternally 

ABSENT. 

I am happy to hear you say Lord Northesk is well. 
You do not mention your ovv^n health. During that 
transient residence at Lichfield, I observed with pain 
that your Ladyship's constitution was very delicate. 
The years of advancing youth have, I trust, brought 
strength and bloom on their wing. 

For both your sakes I regret that intelligent and 
amiable Mrs. Scott is removed so far from you. She 
must often wish to embrace the lovely daughter of a 
lost friend — a friend so dear and so revered ! 

The style of Lady Marianne's letter convinces me 
that she has a mind whose tastes, pursuits, and sensi- 
bilities preclude the irksome lassitude with w^hich 
retirement is apt to inspire people at her sprightly time 
of life. Ah ! dearest Madam, may the consciousness 
of cheering the declining years of a beloved father 
gild the silent hours, when the rocks frown round you 



DR. DARWIN 135 

with solemn sternness, and the winds of winter are 
howling over the ocean. 

Almost five years are elapsed since Dr. Darwin left 
Lichfield. A handsome young w^idow, relict of Colonel 
Pole, by whom she had three children, drew from us, 
in the hymeneal chain, our celebrated physician, our 
poetic and witty friend. 

The Doctor was in love like a very Celadon, and a 
numerous young family are springing up in consequence 
of a union which was certainly a little unaccountable ; 
not that there was any wonder that a fine, graceful, and 
affluent young woman should fascinate a grave philo- 
sopher ; but that a sage of so elegant external, and 
sunk into the vale of years, should, by so gay a lady, 
be preferred to younger, richer, and handsomer suitors, 
was the marvel ; specially since, though lively, benevo- 
lent, and by no means deficient in native wit, she 
was never suspected of a taste for science, or works 
of imagination. Yet so it was ; and she makes her 
ponderous spouse a very attached and indeed devoted 
wife ! The poetic philosopher, in return, transfers the 
amusement of his leisure hours from the study of 
botany and mechanics, and the composition of odes 
and heroic verses, to fabricating riddles and charades ! 
Thus employed, his mind is somewhat in the same 
predicament with Hercules' body when he sat amongst 
the women and handled the distaff. 

Dr. Darwin finds himself often summoned to Lich- 
field ; indeed whatever symptoms of danger arise in 
the diseases of those whose fortunes are at all competent 
to the expense of employing a distant physician. When 
I see him he shall certainly be informed how kindly 
your Ladyship enquires after his welfare and that 



136 ANNA SEWARD 

of his family. His eldest son by his first wife, who was 
one of the most enlightened and charming of women, 
died of a putrid fever while he was studying physic 
at Edinburgh with the most sedulous attention and 
the most promising ingenuity. His second is an attorney 
at Derby, of very distinguished merit both as to intellect 
and virtue ; and your playfellow, Robert, grown to an 
uncommon height, gay and blooming as a morn of 
summer, pursues medical studies in Scotland, under 
happier auspices, I hope, than his poor brother. 

I had the misfortune to lose my mother in the year 
1780, My dearest father yet lives, but his existence 
hangs by a very slender thread ; since, however, he 
suffers no pain nor depression of spirits, I bless God 
that he yet lifts up his feeble hands to bless me. 

Lady Marianne Carnegie has no reason to doubt 
her epistolary talents. The proof of their elegance 
is before me ; but dearer far is their kindness than 
their grace. Ah ! Madam, the affection which that 
kindness has excited in my heart creates a tender 
interest in all you say to me, beyond the reach of literary 
communication, scenic description, or the most brilliant 
wit to inspire, unaided by that sentiment which binds 
me to you ! I am, Madam, etc. 



Anna Seward to 

AN OLD MAID 

January 30, 1786. 
Apropos of old maids, after a gradual decline of a 
few months, we have lost, dear Mrs. Porter, the earliest 
object of Dr. Johnson's love. This was some years 



MRS. LUCY PORTER 137 

before he married her mother. In youth, her fair, 
clear complexion, bloom, and rustic prettiness, pleased 
the men. More than once she might have married 
advantageously ; but, as to the enamoured affections, 

High Taurus' snow, fann'd by the eastern wind. 
Was not more cold. 

Spite of the accustomed petulance of her temper, 
and odd perverseness, since she had no malignance I 
regret her as a friendly creature, of intrinsic worth, 
with whom, from childhood, I had been intimate. 
She was one of those few beings who, from a sturdy 
singularity of temper, and some prominent good qualities 
of head and heart, was enabled, even in her days of 
scanty maintenance, to make society glad to receive 
and pet the grown spoiled child. Affluence was not hers 
till it came to her in her fortieth year, by the death 
of her eldest brother. From the age of twenty till 
that period she had boarded in Lichfield wdth Dr. 
Johnson's mother, who still kept that little bookseller's 
shop by wliich her husband had supplied the scanty 
means of existence. Meanwhile, Lucy Porter kept 
the best company of our little city, but would make 
no engagement on market-days, lest Granny, as she 
called Mrs. Johnson, should catch cold by serving in 
the shop. There Lucy Porter took her place, standing 
behind the counter, nor thought it a disgrace to thank 
a poor person who purchased from her a penny battle- 
dore. 

With a marked vulgarity of address and language, 
and but unintellectual cultivation, she had a certain 
shrewdness of understanding and piquant humour, 
with the most, perfect truth and integrity. By these 



138 ANNA SEWARD 

good trails in her character were the most respectable 
inhabitants of this place induced to bear, with kind 
smiles, her mulish obstinacy and perverse contra- 
dictions. Johnson himself, often her guest, set the 
example, and extended to her that compliant indulgence 
which he shewed not to any other person. I have 
heard her scold him like a school-boy for soiling her 
floor with his shoes, for she was clean as a Dutch woman 
in her house, and exactly neat in her person. Dress too 
she loved in her odd way ; but we will not assert that 
the Graces were her handmaids. Friendly, cordial, and 
cheerful to those she loved, she was more esteemed, 
more amusing, and more regretted than many a polished 
character, over whose smooth but insipid surface the 
attention of those who have mind passes listless and 
uninterested. . . . 

Adieu. Do I flatter myself inordinately by the idea 
that I am sometimes regretted in that circle at Wellsburn, 
which so well understands how to speed and illuminate 
the winter's day ? 



FRANCES BURNEY (MADAME D'ARBLAY) (1752-1840) 

A DAUGHTER of Dr. Bumey, organist, of Lynn. She began 
writing at the age of ten, but on her fifteenth birthday burnt 
all .she had written. In 1778 " Evelina," her first book, 
was published anonymously, but Dr. Burney recognised his 
daughter's writing, and soon told Mrs. Thrale, with whom 
she became a great favourite. She was also a friend of 
Dr. Johnson, and other well-known people of her day. 
Through the influence of Mrs. Delany, she held an appointment 
in the Royal Household, but eventually resigned it owing to 
ill-health. In 1793 she was married to General D'Arblay, 



AT TEA WITH DR. JOHNSON 139 

a French refugee, and after some years' residence in England, 
they went to live near Paris. Fanny Burney wrote other 
books : a Tragedy in which Mrs. Siddons and Kcmble 
appeared, and her deservedly well-known Journal and Letters. 



To Mrs. Thrale 

TAKING TEA WITH DR. JOHNSON 

July 1780. 

Nobody does write such sweet letters as my dear 
Mrs. Thrale, and I would sooner give up a month's 
allowance of meat than my week's allowance of an 
epistle. 

The report of the Parliament's dissolution I hope is 
premature. I inquire of everybody I see about it, and 
always hear that it is expected now to last almost as 
long as it can last. Why, indeed, should Government 
wish to dissolve it, when they meet with no opposition 
from it ? 

Since I wrote last I have drunk tea with Dr. Johnson. 
My father took me to Bolt Court, and we found him 
most fortunately, with only one brass-headed-cane 
gentleman. Since that, I have had the pleasure to 
meet him again at Mrs. Reynolds's, when he offered 
to take me with him to Grub Street, to see the ruins 
of the house demolished there in the late riots, by 
a mob that, as he observed, could be no friend to the 
Muses ! He inquired if I had ever yet visited Grub 
Street, but was obliged to restrain his anger when I 
answered " No," because he acknowledged he had 
never paid his respects to it himself. " However," 
says he, " you and I, Burney, will go together ; we have 
a very good right to go, so we'll visit the mansions of 



I40 FRANCES BURNEY 

our progenitors, and take up our own freedom to- 
gether." 

There's for you, madam ! What can be grander ? 
The loss of Timoleon is really terrible ; yet, as it is 
an incident that will probably dwell no little time upon 
the author's mind, who knows but it may be productive 
of another tragedy, in which a dearth of story will not 
merely be no fault of his, but no misfortune ? 

I have no intelligence to give about the Dean of 
Coleraine, but that we are now in daily expectation of 
hearing of his arrival. 

Yesterday I drank tea at Sir Joshua's and met by 
accident with Mrs. Cholmondeley. I was very glad 
to find that her spirits are uninjured by her misfortunes ; 
she was as gay, flighty, entertaining and frisky as ever. 
Her sposo is not confined, as was said ; he is only gone 
upon his travels : she seems to bear his absence with 
remarkable fortitude. After all, there is something 
in her very attractive ; her conversation is so spirited, 
so humorous, so enlivening, that she does not suffer one's 
attention to rest, much less to flag, for hours together. 

Sir Joshua told me he was now at work upon your 
pictures, touching them up for Streatham, and that 
he has already ordered the frames, and shall have them 
quite ready whenever the house is in order for them. 

I also met at his house Mr. W. Burke, and young 
Burke, the orator's son, who is made much ado about, 
but I saw not enough of him to know why. 

We are all here very truly concerned for Mr. Chamier, 
who, you know, is a very great favourite among us. 
He is very ill, and thinks himself in a decline. He is 
now at Bath, and writes my father word he has made 
up his mind, come what may. 



SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS 141 

Your good news of my master glads me, however, 
beyond what good news of almost any other man in 
the world could do. Pray give him my best respects, 
and beg him not to forget me so much as to look strange 
upon me when we next meet ; if he does it won't be 
fair, for I feel that I shall look very kind upon him. 

I fancy Miss Thrale is quite too difficult ; why bless 
me, by " something hapjDening " ? I never meant to 
wait for a murder, nor a wedding, no, nor an invasion, 
nor an insurrection ; any other horror will do as well. 
M}^ father charges me to give you his kindest love, and 
not daintify his affection into respects or compliments. 

Adieu, dearest madam, and from me accept not only 
love, and not only respects, but both, and gratitude, 
and warmest wishes, and constancy invariable into 
the bargain. 

F. BURNEY. 

I am very glad Mr. Tidy is so good. Thank him 
for me, and tell him I am glad he keeps my place open ; 
and pray give Dr. Delap my compliments. Has he 
settled yet how he shall dress the candle-snuffers the 
first night ? I would by no means have the minutest 
directions omitted. 



Fanny Biirney to Mrs. Burney 

COURT ETIQUETTE 

Windsor, December 17, 1785. 
My dearest Hetty, — I am sorry I could not more 
immediately write ; but I really have not had a moment 
since your last. 



142 FRANCES BURNEY 

Now I know what your next want is, to hear accounts 
of kings, queens, and such royal personages. O no ! 
do you so ? Well. 

Shall I tell you a few matters of fact ? — or, had you 
rather a few matters of etiquette ? Oh, matters of 
etiquette you cry ! for matters of fact are short and 
stupid, and anybody can tell, and everybody is tired 
with them. 

Very well, take your own choice. 
To begin, then, with the beginning. 
You know I told you in my last my various difficulties, 
what sort of preferment to turn my thoughts to, and 
concluded with just starting a young budding notion 
of decision, by suggesting that a handsome pension 
for nothing at all would be as well as working night 
and day for a salary. 

This blossom of an idea, the more I dwelt upon, the 
more I liked. Thinking served it for a hot-house, and 
it came out into full blow as I ruminated upon my pillow. 
Delighted that thus all my contradictory and way^vard 
fancies were overcome, and my mind was peaceably 
settled what to wish and what to demand, I gave over 
all further meditation upon choice of elevation and 
had nothing more to do but to make my election 
known. 

My next business, therefore, was to be presented. 
This could be no difficulty ; my coming hither had 
been their ovv^n desire, and they had earnestly pressed 
its execution. I had only to prepare myself for the 
rencounter. 

You would never believe — you, who, distant from 
courts and courtiers, know nothing of their ways — 
the many things to be studied for appearing with a 



COURT ETIQUETTE 143 

proper propriety before crowned heads. Heads v/ithout 
crowns are quite other sort of rotundas. 

Now then to the etiquette. I inquired into e very- 
particular, that no error might be committed. And 
as there is no saying what may happen in this mortal 
life, I shall give you those instructions I have received 
myself, that, should you find yourself in the royal 
presence, you may know how to comport yourself. 

Directions for Coughing, Sneezing, or Moving, before the 
King and Queen. 

In the first place, you must not cough. If you find 
a cough tickling in your throat, you must arrest it 
from making any sound ; if you find yourself choking 
with the forbearance, you must choke — ^but not cough. 

In the second place, you must not sneeze. If you 
have a vehement cold, you must take no notice of it ; 
if your nose-membranes feel a great irritation, you 
must hold your breath ; if a sneeze still insists upon 
making its way, you must oppose it, by keeping your 
teeth grinding together ; if the violence of the repulse 
breaks some blood-vessel, you must break the blood- 
vessel — but not sneeze. 

In the third place, you must not, upon any account, 
stir either hand or foot. If, by chance, a black pin 
runs into your head, you must not take it out. If the 
pain is very great, you must be sure to bear it without 
wincing ; if it brings the tears into your eyes, you 
must not wipe them off ; if they give you a tingling 
by running down your cheeks, you must look as if 
nothing was the matter. If the blood should gush 
from your head, by means of the black pin, you must 
let it gush ; if you are uneasy to think of making such 
a blurred appearance, you must be uneasy, but you 



144 FRANCES BURNEY 

must say nothing about it. If, however, the agony is 
very great, you may, privately, bite the inside of your 
cheek, or of your lips, for a little relief, taking care, 
meanwhile, to do it so cautiously as to make no apparent 
dent outwardly. And with that precaution, if you 
even gnaw a piece out, it will not be minded, orly be 
sure either to swallow it, or commit it to a corner of 
the inside of your mouth till they are gone — for 
you must not spit. 

I have many other directions, but no more paper ; 
I will endeavour, however, to have them ready for 
you in time. Perhaps, meanwhile you would be glad 
to know if I have myself had opportunity to put in 
practice these receipts. 

How can I answer in this little space ? My love to 

Mr. B and the little ones, and remember me kindly 

to cousin Edward, and believe me, my dearest Esther, 
Most affectionately yours, 

F. B. 

Fanny Burney to Mrs. Lock. 

HER majesty's CHICKENS 

Kevv, April 1789. 

My dearest Friends, — I have her Majesty's com- 
mands to enquire — whether you have any of a certain 
breed of poultry ? 

N.B. — What breed I do not remember. 

And to say she has just received a small group of 
the same herself. 

N.B. — The quantity I have forgotten. 

And to add, she is assured they are something very 
rare and scarce, and extraordinary and curious. 



HER MAJESTY'S CHICKENS 145 

N.B. — By whom she was assured I have not heard. 

And to subjoin, that you must send word if you 
have any of the same sort. 

N.B. — How you are to find that out, I cannot tell. 

And to mention, as a corollary, that if you have 
none of them, and should like to have some, she has 
a cock and a hen she can spare, and will appropriate 
them to Mr. Lock and my dearest Freddy. 

This conclusive stroke so pleased and exhilarated 
me, that forthwith I said you would be both enchanted, 
and so forgot all the preceding particulars. 

And I said, moreover, that I knew you would rear 
them, and cheer them, and fondle them like your 
children. 

So now — pray write a very fair answer fairly, in fair 
hand, and to fair purpose. 

My Susanna is just now come — so all is fair with my 
dearest Mr. and Mrs. Lock's. 

F. B. 

Fanny Burney to her father, Dr. Burney 

DORSET LOYALTY 
Gloucester House, Weymouth, July 13, 1789. 
. . . Col. Golds worthy has just sent me in a 
newspaper containing intelligence that Angelica Kauff- 
mann is making drawings from " Evelina " for the 
Empress of Russia ? Do you think the Empress of 
Russia hears of anything now besides Turkey and 
the Emperor ? And is not Angelica Kauffmann dead ? 
O what an Oracle ! for such is the paper called. 

His Majesty is in delightful health, and much im- 
proved spirits. All agree he never looked better. 

10 



146 FRANCES BURNEY 

The loyalty of all this place is excessive ; they have 
dressed out every street with labels of " God save the 
King ! " all the shops have it over the doors ; all 
the children wear it in their caps, all the labourers in 
their hats, and all the sailors in their voices, for they 
never approach the house without shouting it aloud, 
nor see the King, or his shadow, without beginning to 
huzza, and going on to three cheers. 

The bathing-machines make it their motto over all 
their windows ; and those bathers that belong to the 
royal dippers wear it in bandeaux on their bonnets, 
to go into the sea ; and have it again, in large letters, 
round their waists, to encounter the waves. 

Flannel dresses, tucked up, and no shoes or stockings, 
with, bandeaux and girdles, have a most singular appear- 
ance ; and when first I surveyed these loyal nymphs 
it was with some difficulty I kept my features in order. 

Nor is this all. Think but of the surprise of his 
Majesty when, the first time of his bathing, he had 
no sooner popped his royal head under water than a 
band of music, concealed in a neighbouring machine, 
struck up " God save Great George our King." 

One thing, however, was a little unlucky. When the 
Mayor and burgesses came with the address, they 
requested leave to shake hands. This was graciously 
accorded ; but, the Mayor advancing, in a common 
way, to take the Queen's hand, as he might that of any 
Lady Mayoress, Colonel Gwynn, who stood by, whispered 
" You must kneel, sir." He found, however, that 
he took no notice of this hint, but kissed the Queen's 
hand erect. As he passed him, in his way back, the 
Colonel said, " You should have knelt, sir ! " 

" Sir," answered the poor Mayor, " I cannot." 



MADAME D'ARBLAY 147 

" Everybody does, sir." 
*• Sir — I have a wooden leg." 

Poor man ! 'twas such a surprise ! and such an 
excuse as no one could dispute. 

But the absurdity of the matter followed ; — all the 
rest did the same ; taking the same privilege, by the 
example, without the same or any cause. 

We have just got Mrs. Piozzi's book 1 here. My Royal 
Mistress is reading and will then lend it me. Have 
you read it ? ... A thousand thanks for youi home 
news. 

I am, most dear Sir, 

Affectionately^ and dutifully, your 

F. B. 



Fanny Burney {Madame D'Arblay) to Mrs. ■ 

FANNY BURNEY's MARRIAGE 

1793- 

The account of your surprise, my sweet friend, was 
the last thing to create mine. I was well aware of the 
general astonishment, and of yours in particular. My 
own, however, at my very extraordinary fate, is singly 
greater than that of all my friends united. I had 
never made any vow against marriage, but I had long, 
long, been firmly persuaded it was for me a state of 
too much hazard and too little promise to draw me 
from my individual plans and purposes. I remember, 
in playing at questions and commands, when I vv^as 
thirteen, being asked when I intended to marry, 
and surprising my playmates by solemnly repl^dng, 
" When I think I shall be happier than I am in being 

1 Her " Journey through France, Italy and Germany." 



14^ FRANCiES BURN^E^ 

single." It is true I imagined that time would never 
arrive ; and I have pertinaciously adhered to trying 
no experiment upon any other hope ; for, many and 
mixed as are the ingredients which form what is 
generally considered as happiness, I was always fully 
convinced that social sympathy of character and taste 
could alone have any chance with me ; all else, I always 
thought, and now know, to be immaterial. I have 
only this peculiar — that what many contentedly assert 
or adopt in theory, I have had the courage to be guided 
by practice. ... As my partner is a Frenchman, I 
conclude the wonder raised by the connexion may 
spread beyond my own private circle ; but no wonder 
upon earth can ever arrive near my own in having found 
such a character from that nation. This is a prejudice 
certainly, impertinent and very John Bullish, and very 
arrogant ; but I only share it with all my countrymen, 
and therefore must needs forgive both them and myself. 
I am convinced, however, from your tender solicitude 
for me in all ways, that you will be glad to hear that 
the Queen and all the Royal Family have deigned to 
send me wishes for my happiness through Mrs. Schwellen- 
berg, who has written me " what you call " a very kind 
congratulation. . . . 

F. D'A. 

Fanny Burncy {Madame D'Arblay) to her father, 
Dr. Burney 

AN OPERATION 

BooKHAM, March i6, 1797. 
My dearest Padre, — Relieved at length from a terror 
that almost from the birth of my little darling has 



INFANT STOICISM 149 

hung upon my mind, with what confidence in your 
utmost kindness do I call for your participation in my 
joy that all alarm is over, and Mr. Ansel has taken his 
leave ! I take this large sheet, to indulge in a Babiania , 
which " dear grandpa " will, I am sure, receive with 
partial pleasure, upon this most important event to 
his poor little gentleman. 

When Mr. Ansel came to perform the dreaded opera- 
tion, he desired me to leave the child to him and the 
maid ; but my agitation was not of that sort : I wished 
for the experiment upon the most mature deliberation ; 
but while I trembled with the suspense of its effect, I 
could not endure to lose a moment from the beloved 
little object for and with whom I was running such a 
risk. 

He sat upon my lap, and Mr, Ansel gave him a bit of 
barley-sugar, to obtain his permission for pulling off 
one sleeve of his frock and shirt. He was much sur- 
prised at this opening to an acquaintance — for 
Ansel made no previous visit, having sent his directions 
by M. D'Arblay. However, the barley-sugar occupied 
his mouth, and inclined him to a favourable interpreta- 
tion, though he stared w^th upraised eyebroAvs. Mr. 
Ansel bid Betty hold him a plaything at the other side, 
to draw oil his eyes from what was to follow, and I 
began a little history to him of the misfortunes of the 
toy we chose, which was a drummer, maimed in his 
own service, and whom he loves to lament, under the 
name of " The poor man that has lost his face." But 
all my pathos and all his own ever-ready pity were 
ineffectual to detain his attention when he felt his arm 
grasped by Mr, Ansel ; he repulsed Betty, the soldier, 
and his mamma, and turned about with a quickness 



I50 FRANCES BURNEY 

that disengaged him from Mr. Ansel, who now desired 
me to hold his arm. This he resisted, yet held it out 
himself with unconscious intrepidity, in full sight of the 
lancet, which he saw hovering over it, without the most 
remote suspicion of its slaughtering design, and with 
a rather amused look of curiosity to see what was 
intended. WTien the incision was made he gave a little 
scream, but it was momentary, and ended in a look 
of astonishment at such an unprovoked infliction that 
exceeds all description, all painting, and in turning an 
appealing eye to me, as if demanding at once explana- 
tion and protection. 

My fondest praises now made him understand that 
non-resistance was an act of virtue, and again he held 
out his little arm, at our joint entreaty, but resolutely 
refused to have it held by any one. Mr. Ansel pressed 
out the blood with his lancet again and again, and wiped 
the instrument upon the wound for two or three minutes, 
fearing, from the excessive strictness of his whole 
life's regimen, he might still escape the venom. The 
dear child coloured at sight of the blood, and seemed 
almost petrified with amazement, fixing his wondering 
eyes upon Mr. Ansel with an expression that sought 
to dive into his purpose, and then upon me, as if en- 
quiring how I could approve of it. 

When this was over, Mr. Ansel owned himself still 
apprehensive it might not take, and asked if I should 
object to his inoculating the other arm. I told him I 
committed the whole to his judgement, as M. D'Arblay 
was not at home. And now, indeed, his absence from 
this scene, which he would have enjoyed with the 
proudest forebodings of future courage, became doubly 
regretted, for my little hero, though probably aware 



THE OPERATION 151 

of what would follow, suffered me to bare his other arm, 
and held it out immediately, while looking at the lancet ; 
nor would he again have it supported or tightened ; 
and he saw and felt the incision without shrinking, and 
without any marks of displeasure. 

But though he appeared convinced by my caresses 
that the thing was right, and that his submission was 
good, he evidently thought the deed was unaccountable 
as it was singular ; and all his faculties seemed absorbed 
in profound surprise. I shall never cease being sorry 
his father did not witness this, to clear my character 
from having adulterated the chivalric spirit and courage 
of his race. Mr. Ansel confessed he had never similar 
instance in one so very young, and, kissing his forehead 
when he had done, said, " Indeed, little sir, I am in 
love with you." 

Since this, however, my stars have indulged me in the 
satisfaction of exhibiting his native bravery where it 
gives most pride as well as pleasure ; for his father was 
in the room when, the other day, Mr. Ansel begged leave 
to take some matter from his arm for some future 
experiments. And the same scene was repeated. He 
presented the little creature with a bonbon, and then 
showed his lancet : he let his arm be bared unresistingly, 
and suffered him to make four successive cuts, to take 
matter for four lancets, never crying, nor being either 
angry or frightened, but only looking inquisitively at 
us all in turn, with eyes you would never have for- 
gotten had you beheld, that seemed disturbed by a 
curiosity they could not satisfy, to find some motive 
for our extraordinary proceedings. 

Immediately before the inoculation the faculty of 
speech seemed most opportunely accorded him, and 



152 FRANCES BURNEY 

that with a sudden facility that reminded me of your 
account of his mother's first, though so late reading. 
At noon he repeated after me, when I least expected 
it, " How do do ? " and the next morning, as soon as 
he awoke, he called out, " How do, mamma ? How do, 
papa ? " I give you leave to guess if the question was 
inharmonious. From that time he has repeated readily 
whatever we have desired ; and yesterday, while he was 
eating his dry toast, perceiving the cat, he threw her 
a bit, calling out, " Eat it, Buff ! " Just now, taking 
the string that fastens his gown round his neck, he 
said, " Ett's tie it on, mamma," and when, to try him, 
I bid him say naughty papa, he repeated, " Naughty 
papa," as if mechanically ; but the instant after, spring- 
ing from mine to his arms, he kissed him, and said, 
" Dood papa," in a voice so tender it seemed meant as 
an apology. 

F. D'A. 



LADY HAMILTON (Emma Hart) (1763 1815) 

WAS of humble origin and at one time a servant-maid. Her 
rare beauty attracted the attention of Romney, who painted 
over twenty portraits of her. She turned the heads of more 
than one man of importance in his day— Charles Greville, 
Sir William Hamilton, and lastly Lord Nelson. She died in 
poverty and neglect at Calais in 1815. 

To Hon. Charles Greville, M.P. 

THE BACCHANTE 

Naples, July 22, 1786. 
My ever dearest Greville, — I am now onely writing 
to beg of you for God's sake to send me one letter, if it 



THE BACCHANTE 153 

is onely a farewell. Sure I have deserved this, for the • 
sake of the love you once had for me. . . . So, pray, let 
me beg of you, my much loved Greville, only one line 
from your dear, dear hands. You don't know how 
thankful I shall be for it. For if you knew the misery 
[I] feel, oh ! your heart would not be intirely shut up 
against me ; for I love you wath the truest affection. 
Don't let anj^body sett you against me. Some of your 
friends — your foes, perhaps ; I don't know what to 
stile them — have long wdsht me ill. But, Greville, you 
never will meet with anybody that has a truer affection 
for you than I have, and I onely wish it was in my power 
to shew you what I could do for you. As soon as I 
know your determination I shall take my own measures. 
If I don't hear from you, and that you are coming ac- 
cording to promise, I shall be in England at Christmas 
at farthest. Don't be unhappy at that. I will see you 
once more, for the last time, I find life is unsupportable 
without you. Oh, my heart is intirely broke. Then, 
for God's sake, my ever dear Greville, do write to me 
some comfort. I don't know what to do. I am now 
in that state I am incapable of anything. I have [a] 
language-master, a singing-master, musick, etc., but 
what is it for ? If it was to amuse you, I should be 
happy. But, Greville, what will it avail me ? I am 
poor, helpeless and forlorn. . . . But no more, I will 
trust to providence ; and wherever you go, God bless 
you and preserve you, and may you all ways be happy ! 
But write to Sir William. What as he done to affront ? 
If I have spirits I will tell you something concerning 
how we go on, that will make my letter worth paying 
for. Sir William wants a picture of me the size of the 
Bacante, for his new apartment, and he will take that 



154 LADY HAMILTON 

picture of me, in the black gown at Romney's, and I 
have made the bargain with him, that the picture shall 
be yours, if he will pay for it, and he will, and I have 
wrote to Romney to send it. 

Their is two painters now in the house, painting me. 
One picture is finished. It is the size of the Bacante, 
setting in a turbin and Turkish dress. The other is in 
a black rubin hat with wite feathers, blue silk gown, 
etc. But as soon as these is finished, ther is two more 
to paint me, — and Angelaca, if she comes. And March- 
mont is to cut a head of me, for a ring. I w^ish Angelaca 
would come ; for Prince Draydrixton from Veina is hear 
and dines with us often, and he wants a picture of me. 
He is my cavaliere — servente. He is much in love 
with me. I w^alk in the Villa Reale every night. I 
have generally two Princes, two or 3 nobles, the 
English minister, and the King with a crowd beyound us. 
The Q [ueen] likes me much and desired Prince Dray- 
drixtone to walk with me near her, that she might get 
a sight of me. For the Prince when he is not with ous, is 
with the Queen, and he does nothing but entertain her 
with my beauty, the accounts of it, etc. But, Greville, 
the king as eyes he as a heart, and I have made an im- 
pression on it. ... I must tell you a piece of gallantry 
of the K. . . . On Sunday he dines at Paysilipo, and he 
allways comes every Sunday before the casina in his 
boat to look at me. We had a small deplomatic party, 
and we was sailing in our boat, the K. directly came up, 
put his boat of musick next us, and made all the French 
horns and the whole band play. He took of his hat, 
and sett with his hat on his knees all the wile, and when 
we was going to land he made his bow, and said it was 
a sin he could not speak English. But I have him in my 



THE PURSUIT OF BEAUTY 155 

train every night at the Villa or Oppera. I have been to 
Pompea, etc., etc. and we are going next week round the 
Island Carprea, Ischea, etc. We shall be awhay a little 
while. I should feil pleasure in all this, if you was heare. 
But that blessing I have not, and so I must make the 
best of my lot. God bless you ! I would write a longer 
letter. But I am going to Paysylipo to diner, and I 
have a conversazzione to night and a concert. 

I bathe every day. I have not any irruptions, and 
— what will surprise you — I am so remarkably fair, that 
everybody says I put on red and white. . . . 

We have had dreadful thunder and lightening. It 
fell at the Maltese minister's just by our house and 
burnt is beds and wires, etc. I have now persuaded Sir 
William to put up a conductor to his house. The lava 
runs a little, but the mountain is very full, and we expect 
an iruption every day. I must stop, or else I shall begin 
to tell you my ideas of the people of Naples. In my 
next I will. I shall write you an Italian letter soon. 
God bless you. Make my compliments to your brother 
and all your friends thats my friends. Pray write to 
Yours ever — with the truest and sincerest affection — - 
God bless you — write my ever dear, dear Greville. 

Emma. 



Emma Hart {Lady Hamilton) to Sir William Hamilton 

A VISIT TO THE CONVENT 

Wednesday, January 10, 1787. 
My dear Sir Wm., — I had hardly time to thank you 
for your kind letter of this morning as I was buisy pre 
pairing for to go on my visit to the Convent of St. 



156 LADY HAMILTON 

Romita ; and endead I am glad I went, tho' it was a 
short visit. But to-morrow I dine with them in lull 
assembly. I am quite charmed with Beatrice Acqua- 
viva. Such is the name of the charming whoman I saw 
to-day. Oh, Sir William, she is a pretty whoman. 
She is 29 years old. She took the veil at twenty, and 
does not repent to this day, though, if I am a judge of 
physiognomy, her eyes does not look like the eyes of 
a nun. They are allways laughing, and something in 
them vastly alluring, and I wonder the men of Naples 
would suffer the onely pretty whoman who is realy 
pretty to be shut in a convent. But it is like the mean- 
spirited ill taste of the Neapolitans. I told her I 
wondered how she would be lett to hide herself from the 
world, and I daresay thousands of tears was shed, the 
day she deprived Naples of one of its greatest ornaments. 
She answered with a sigh, that endead numbers of tears 
was shed, and once or twice her resolution was allmost 
shook, but a pleasing comfort she felt at regaining her 
friends, that she had been brought up [with], and 
religious considerations strengthened her mind, and she 
parted with the world with pleasure, and since that 
time one of her sisters had followed her example, and 
another — which I saw — was preparing to enter soon. 
But neither of l\er sisters is so beautiful as her, tho' 
the[y] are booth very agreable. But I think Beatrice 
is charming, and I realy fell for her an affection. Her 
eyes. Sir William, is I don't know how to describe them. 
I stopt one hour with them, and I had all the good 
things to eat, and I promise you they don't starve them- 
selves. But there dress is very becoming, and she told 
me that she was allowed to wear rings and muffs and any 
little thing she liked, and endead she displayd to-day 



tHE CHARMING NUN 157 

a good deal of finery, for she had 4 or 5 dimond rings 
on her fingers, and seemed fond of her muff. She has 
excelent teeth and shows them, for she is allways laugh- 
ing. She kissed my lips, cheeks and foi ehead, and every 
moment exclaimed " charming fine creature," admired 
my dres. said I looked like an angel, for I was in clear 
wite dimity and a blue sash. She admired my hat and 
fine hair, and she said she had heard I was good to the 
poor, and generous and noble-minded. " Now," she 
says, " it would be worth wile to live for such a one as 
you. Your good heart would melt at any trouble that 
befel me, and partake of one's greef or be equaly happy 
at one's good fortune. But I never met with a freind 
yet, or I ever saw a person I could love tell now, and you 
shall have proofs of my love." In short I sat and 
listened to her, and the tears stood in my eyes, I don't 
know why ; but I loved her at that moment. I thought 
what a charming wife she would have made, what a 
mother of a family, and what a freind, and the first 
good and amiable whoman I have seen since I came 
to Naples for to be lost to the world — how cruel ! She 
give me a satten pocket-booke of her own work, and 
bid me think of her, when I saw it and was many miles 
far off ; and years hence when she peraps should be no 
more, to look at it, and think the person that give it 
had not a bad heart. Did not she speak very pretty ? 
but not one word of religion ; but I shall be happy 
today, for I shall dine with them all and come home at 
night. It is a beautiful house and garden, and the 
attention of them was very pleasing. There is sixty 
whomen and all well-looking, but not like the fair 
Beatrice. " Oh Emma," she says to me, " the[y] 
brought here the Vieve (?) minister's wife, but I did 



158 LADY HAMILTON 

not like the looks of her at first. She was little short 
pinched-face, and I receved her cooly. How different 
from you, and how surprised was I in seeing you tall in 
statue. We may read your heart in your countenance, 
your complexion, in short, your figure and features is 
rare, for you are like the marble statues I saw, when I 
was in the world." I think she flatered me up, but I 
was pleased. . . . my dear Sir William, 

Your truly affectionate 

Emma. 



Lady Hamilton to the Honourable Charles Greville 

NELSON AT NAPLES 
On board the Foudroyant, Bay of Naples, July 19, i799- 
Dear Sir, — We have an opportunity of sending to 
England, and I cannot let pass this good opportunity 
without thanking you for your kind remembrance in 
Sir William's letter. Everything goes on well here. We 
have got Naples, all the Forts ; and to-night our troops 
go to Capua. His Majesty is with us on board, were 
he holds his Councils and Levees every day. General 
Acton and Castelcicala with one gentleman of the bed- 
chamber attend his Majesty. Sir William and Lord 
Nelson with Acton are the King's Counsellers, and you 
may be ashured that the future government will be 
most just and solid. The King has bought his ex- 
perience most dearly, but at last he knows his friends 
from his enemies, and also knows the defects of his 
former government, and is determined to remedy them. 
For he has great good sense, and his misfortunes have 
made him steady and look into himself. 



NELSON AT NAPLES 159 

The Queen is not come. She sent me as her Deputy, 
for I am very popular, speak the Neapolitan language, 
and [am] consider'd with Sir William, the friend of the 
people. The Queen is waiting at Palermo, and she is 
determined as there has been a great outcry against her, 
not to risk coming with the King ; for if it had not 
succeeded [on] his arrival, and he not been well received, 
she wou'd not bear the blame, nor be in the way. We 
arrived before the King 14 days, and I had privately 
seen all the Loyal party, and having the head of the 
Lazerony an old friend, he came in the night of our 
arrival, and told me had 90 thousand Lazeronis ready 
at the holding up of his finger, with . . . with arms. 
Lord Nelson to whom I enterpreted, got a large supply 
of arms for the rest, and they were deposited with this 
man. In the mean time, the . . . were waiting in 
orders. The bombs v/ere sent into St. Elmo, were 
returned, and the citty in confusion. I sent for Hispali, 
the head of the Lazeroni, and told him, in great con- 
fidence, that the king wou'd be soon at Naples, and 
that all we required of him was to keep the citty quiet 
for ten days, from that moment. We give him onely 
one hundred of our marine troops. These brave m.en 
kept all the tow^n in order. And he brought the heads 
of all his 90 thousand round the ship on the King's 
arrival ; and he is to have promotion. I have through 
him made " the Queen's party " ; and the people at large 
have pray'd her to come back, and she is nov/ very 
popular. / send her every night a messenger to Palmero, 
with all the news and letters, and she gives me the same 
[way]. I have given audiences to those of her party, 
and settled matters between the nobility and Her 
Majesty. She is not to see on her arrival any of her 



i6o LADY HAMILTON 

former evil counselers, nor the women of fashion, alltho 
Ladys of the Bedchamber, — formerly her friends and 
companions, who did her dishonour by their desolute 
life. 

All, all is changed. She has been very unfortunate; 
but she is a good woman, and has sense enough to 
proffit of her past unhappiness, and will make for the 
future amende honorable for the past. In short, if I 
can judge, it may turn out fortunate that the Neapolitans 
have had a dose of Republicanism. 

But what a glory to our Good King, to our Country, 
to ourselves, that we — our brave fleet, our great Nelson — 
have had the happiness of restoring [the] King to his 
throne, to the Neapolitans their much loved King, and 
been the instrument of giving a future solid and just 
government to the Neapolitans. 

The measures the King is taking are all to be approved 
of. The guilty are punish'd, and the faithful are re- 
warded. I have not been on shore but once. The King 
gave us leave to go as far as St. Elmo's to see the effect 
of the bombs. I saw at a distance our despoiled house, 
dnd town, and villa, that have been plundered. Sir 
William's new apartment, — a bomb burst in it ! But 
it made me so lov/-spirited, I don't desire to go again. 

We shall, as soon as the government is fixed, return 
to Palermo, and bring back the Royal family ; for I 
forsee not any permanent government, till that event 
takes place. Nor would it be politick, after all the 
hospitality the King and Queen received at Palermo, 
to carry them off in a hurry. So, you see, there is 
great management required. 

I am quite worn out. For I am enterpreter to Lord 
Nelson, the King, and the Queen; and altogether 



TH£ KING AND QUEEN OF NAPLES i6i 

feil quite shatter'd ; but, as things go well, that keeps 
me up. We dine now every day with the King at 
12 o'clock. Dinner is over by one. His Majesty goes 
to sleep, and we sit down to write in this heat ; and 
on board you may guess what we suffer. 

My mother is at Palermo. But I have an English 
lady with me, who is of use to me in writing, and helping 
to keep papers and things in order. We have given the 
King all the upper cabbin ; all but one room that we 
write in and receive the ladies who come to the King. 
Sir William and I have an appartment ... in the 
ward-room (?) ; and as to Lord Nelson, he is here and 
there and everywhere. I never saw such zeal and 
activity in any one as in this wonderful man. My 
dearest Sir William, thank God ! is well, and of the 
greatest use now to the King. We hope Capua will fall 
in a few days, and then we shall be able to return to 
Palermo. On Sunday last, we had prayers on board. 
The King assisted, and was much pleased with the order, 
decency, and good behaviour of the men, the officers, 
etc. Pray write to me. God bless you, my dear Sir, 
and believe me, 

Ever yours affectionately, 

Emma Hamilton. 



Lady Hamilton to Lord Nelson 

THE LAST LETTER 1 

Canterbury, October 8, 1805. 
Dearest Husband of my Heart, — You are all in 
this world to your Emma — may God send you victory 

1 This letter was returned unopened on account of Nelson's 
death. 

II 



i62 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS 

and Honour [and] soon to your Emma, Hovatia and 
paradise Merton, for when you are there it will be 
paradise. My own Nelson. May God prosper you 
and preserve you for the^ake of your affectionate 

Emma. 



HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS (1762-1827) 

SHE was born at Bermck, came to London in 1781, and 
began her literary career by writing verse. Seven years later 
she went on a visit to Paris, where she stayed during the 
Revolution, and strongly supported its principles. Imprisoned 
by Robespierre, she narrowly escaped being guillotined. 
Her sketches and letters deal with the condition of France 
during the Revolutionary period, but by critics are said 
to be one-sided, and therefore as a matter of history are 
unreliable. 

To a Friend 

SIGHTSEEING DURING THE REVOLUTION 

[Paris, 1790.] 

We have been at all the theatres, and I am charmed 
with the comic actors. The tragic performers afforded 
me much less pleasure. Before we can admire Madame 
Vestris, the first tragic actress of Paris, we must have 
lost the impression (a thing impossible) of Mrs. Siddons's 
performance ; who, " instead of tearing a passion to 
rags," like Madame Vestris, only tears the hearts of 
the audience with sympathy. 

Most of the pieces we have seen at the French theatres 
have been little comedies relative to the circumstances 
of the times, and, on that account, preferred, in this 
moment of enthusiasm, to all the wit of Moliere. These 
little pieces might perhaps read coldly enough in your 



CA IRA 163 

study, but have a most charming effect with an accom- 
paniment of applause from some hundreds of the 
National Guards, the real actors in the scenes represented. 
Between the acts national songs are played, in which 
the whole audience join in chorus. There is one air 
in particular which is so universal a favourite that it 
is called " Le Carrillon National " : the burden of the 
song is " Ca ira." It is sung not only at every theatre, 
and in every street in Paris, but in every town and 
village in France, by man, woman, and child. " Ca ira " 
is everywhere the signal of pleasure, the beloved sound 
which animated every bosom with delight, and of 
which every ear is enamoured. And I have heard the 
most serious political conversations end by a sportive 
assurance, in allusion to this song, que " Ca ira ! " 

Giornowiche, the celebrated player on the violin, 
who was so much the fashion last winter at London, 
I am told, sometimes amused himself at Paris by 
getting up into one of the trees of the Palais Royal, 
after it was dark, and calling forth tones from his violin, 
fit to " take the prisoned soul, and lap it into Elysium." 
He has frequently detained some thousands of people 
half the night in the Palais Royal, who, before they 
discovered the performer, used to call out in rapture, 
" Bravo, bravo ; c'est mieux que Giornowiche." 

I am just returned from seeing the Gobelin tapestry, 
which appears the work of magic. It gave me pleasure 
to see two pictures of Henry IV. In one, he is placed 
at supper with the miller's family ; and in the other 
he is embracing Sully, who is brought forward on a 
couch, after having been wounded in battle. Nothing 
has afforded me more delight, since I came to France,, 
than the honours which are paid to my favourite hero, 



i64 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS 

Henry IV., whom I prefer to all the Alexandres and 
Frederics that ever existed. They may be terribly 
sublime, if you will, and have great claims on my 
admiration ; but as for my love, all that portion which 
I bestow on heroes is already in Henry's possession. 

Little statues of Henry IV. and Sully are very common. 
Sully is represented kneeling at the feet of this amiable 
prince, who holds out his hand to him ; and on the 
base of the same are written the words which Sully 
records in his memoirs : " Mais levez-vous, levez-vous 
done, Sully, on croiroit que je vous pardonne." 

While the statue of Henry IV. on the Pont Neuf is 
illuminated and decorated with national ribbon, that 
of Louis XIV., in the Place Victoire, is stripped of its 
former ostentatious ornaments ; the nations, which 
were represented enchained at his feet, having been 
removed since the Revolution. The figure of Fame is, 
however, still left hovering behind the statue of the 
King, with a crown of laurel in her hand, which, it is 
generally supposed, she is going to place upon his head. 

But I have heard of a French wit who enquired 
whether it was really her intention to place the laurel 
on his Majesty's head, or whether she had just taken 
it off. 

In our ride this morning we stopped at the Place 
Royale, where I was diverted by reading, on the front 
of a little shop under the piazzas, these words : Robelin, 
ecrivain. — Memoires et lettres ecrites a juste prix, a la 
nation." I am told that Mons. Robelin is in very 
flourishing business ; and perhaps I might have had 
recourse to him for assistance in my correspondence 
with you, if I did not leave Paris to-morrow. You shall 
hear from me from Rouen. 



THE BASTILLE 165 

Helen Maria Williams to a Friend 

A VISIT TO THE BASTILLE 

[1790.] 

Before I suffered my friends at Paris to conduct me 
through the usual routine of convents, churches, and 
palaces, I requested to visit the Bastille, feeling a 
much stronger desire to contemplate the ruins of that 
building than the most perfect edifices of Paris. When 
we got into the carriage, our French servant called to 
the coachman, with an air of triumph, " A la Bastille — 
mais nous n'y resterons pas." We drove under that 
porch which so many wretches have entered never to 
repass, and, alighting from the carriage, descended with 
difficulty into the dungeons, which were too low to admit 
of our standing upright, and so dark that we were 
obliged at noon-day to visit them with the light of a 
candle. We saw the hooks of those chains by which 
the prisoners were fastened round the neck to the 
walls of their cells ; many of which, being below the 
level of the water, are in a constant state of humidity ; 
and a noxious vapour issued from them, which more 
than once extinguished the candle, and was so in- 
sufferable that it required a strong spirit of curiosity 
to tempt one to linger. Good God ! — and to these 
regions of horror were human creatures dragged at 
the caprice of despotic power. What a melancholy 
consideration that 

Man ! proud man, 
Drest in a little brief authority, 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As makes the angels weep. 

There appears to be a greater num.ber of these dungeons 



i66 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS 

than one could have imagined the hard heart of tyranny 
itself would contrive ; for, since the destruction of the 
building, many subterraneous cells have been dis- 
covered underneath a piece of ground which was inclosed 
within the walls of the Bastille, but which seemed a 
bank of solid earth before the horrid secrets of this 
prison-house were disclosed. Some skeletons were 
found in these recesses, with irons still fastened on 
their decaying bones. 

After having visited the Bastille, we may indeed be 
surprised that a nation so enlightened as the French 
submitted so long to the oppressions of their Govern- 
ment ; but we must cease to wonder that their indignant 
spirits at length shook off the galling yoke. 

Those who have contemplated the dungeons of the 
Bastille, without rejoicing in the French Revolution, 
may, for aught I know, be very agreeable persons, and 
very agreeable companions in the hours of prosperity ; 
but if my heart were sinking with anguish I should 
not fly to those persons for consolation. Sterne says 
that a man is incapable of loving one woman as he 
ought who has not a sort of an affection for the whole 
sex ; and as little should I look for particular sympathy 
from those who have no feelings of general philanthropy. 
If the splendour of a despotic throne can only shine 
like the radiance of lightning while all around is in- 
volved in gloom and horror, in the name of Heaven 
let its baleful lustre be extinguished for ever. May no 
such strong contrast of light and shade again exist 
in this political system of France ! but may the beams 
of liberty, like the beams of day, shed their benign 
influence on the cottage of the peasant as well as on 
the palace of the monarch ! May liberty, which for 



SECRETS OF THE PRISON-HOUSE 167 

so many ages past has taken pleasure in softening the 
evils of the bleak and rugged climates of the north, 
in fertilising a barren soil, in clearing the swamp, in 
lifting mounds against the inundations of the tempest, 
diffuse her blessings also on the genial land of France 
and bid the husbandman rejoice under the shade of 
the olive and the vine. 

The Bastille, which Henry IV. and his veteran troops 
assailed in vain, the citizens of Paris had the glory 
of taking in a few hours. The advance of Mons. de 
Launay had tempted him to guard this fortress with 
only half the complement of men ordered by Govern- 
ment ; and a letter which he received the morning of 
the 14th of July, commanding him to sustain the siege 
till the evening, when succour would arrive, joined to 
his own treachery towards the assailants, cost him 
his life. 

The courage of the besiegers was inflamed by the 
horrors of famine, there being at this time only twenty- 
four hours' provision of bread in Paris. For some days 
the people had assembled in crowds round the shops of 
the bakers, who were obliged to have a guard of soldiers 
to protect them from the famished multitude ; while 
the women, rendered furious by want, cried, in the 
resolute tone of despair, " II nous faut du pain pour 
nos enfans." Such was the scarcity of bread, that a 
French gentleman told me that the day preceding the 
taking of the Bastille he was invited to dine with a 
Negotiant, and, when he went, was informed that a 
servant had been out five hours in search of bread, and 
had at last been able to purchase only one loaf. 

It was at this crisis, it was to save themselves the 
shocking spectacle of their wives and infants perishing 



i68 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS 

before their eyes, that the citizens of Paris flew to 
arms, and, impelled by such causes, fought with the 
daring intrepidity of men who had all that renders 
life of any value at stake, and who determined to die 
or conquer. The women, too, far from indulging the 
fears incident to our feeble sex, in defiance of the cannon 
of the Bastille, ventured to bring victuals to their 
sons and husbands ; and with a spirit worthy of Roman 
matrons, encouraged them to go on. Women mounted 
guard in the streets, and when any person passed, 
called out boldly, " Qui va la ? " 

A gentleman, who had the command of fifty men in 
this enterprise, told me that one of his soldiers being 
killed by a cannon-ball, the people, with great marks 
of indignation, removed the corpse, and then, snatching 
up the dead man's hat, begged money of the bystanders 
for his interment, in a manner characteristic enough 
of that gaiety which never forsakes the French, even 
on such occasions as would make any other people 
on earth furious. " Madame, pour ce pauvre diable 
qui se fait tue pour la Nation ! — Mons. pour ce pauvre 
chien qui se fait tue pour la Nation ! " This mode 
of supplication, though not very pathetic, obtained 
the end desired ; no person being sufficiently obdurate 
to resist the powerful plea, "qu'il se fait tue pour la 
Nation." 

When the Bastille was taken, and the old man, of 
whom you have no doubt heard, and who had been 
confined in a dungeon thirty-five years, was brought 
into daylight, which had not for so long a space of 
time visited his eyes, he staggered ^ shook his white 
beard, and cried faintly, " Gentlemen, you have ren- 
dered me one great service ; render me another, kill 



THE PRISONER OF THE BASTILLE 169 

me ! for I know not where to go," " Come along, come 
along," the crowd answered with one voice, " the 
Nation will provide for you." 

As the heroes of the Bastille passed along the streets 
after its surrender, the citizens stood at the doors of 
their houses, loaded with wine, brandy, and other 
refreshments, which they offered to these deliverers 
of their country. But they unanimously refused to 
take any strong liquors, considering the great work 
they had undertaken as yet not accomplished, and 
being determined to watch the whole night in case of 
any surprise. 

All those who had assisted in taking the Bastille 
were presented by the municipality of Paris with a 
ribbon of the national colours, on which is stamped, 
inclosed in a circle of brass, an impression of the Bastille, 
and which is worn as a military order. 

The municipality of Paris also proposed a solemn 
funeral procession in memory of those who lost their 
lives in this enterprise ; but, on making application 
to the National Assembly for a deputation of its members 
to assist at this solemnity, the Assembly were of opinion 
that these funeral honours should be postponed till a 
more favourable moment, as they might at present 
have a tendency to inflame the minds of the people. 

I have heard several persons mention a young man, 
of a little, insignificant figure, who, the day before the 
Bastille was taken, got up on a chair in the Palais 
Royal, and harangued the multitude, conjuring them 
to make a struggle for their liberty, and asserting that 
now the moment was arrived. 

They listened to his eloquence with the most eager 
attention ; and, when he had instructed as many as 



I/O HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS 

could hear him at one time, he requested them to depart, 
and repeated his harangue to a new set of auditors. 

Among the dungeons of the Bastille are placed, upon 
a heap of stones, the figures of the two men who con- 
trived the plan of this fortress, where they were afterwards 
confined for life. These men are represented chained to 
the wall, and are beheld without any emotion of sympathy. 

The person employed to remove the ruins of the 
Bastille has framed of the stones eighty-three complete 
models of this building, which, with a true patriotic 
spirit, he has presented to the eighty-three departments 
of the kingdom, by way of hint to his countrymen to 
take care of their liberties in future. 



MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (Godwin) (1759-1797) 

WAS born at Hoxton. From her childhood her home was 
an unhappy one, her father being a spendthrift and a drunkard. 
At nineteen she earned her living as a governess ; but some 
years later became literary adviser to J. Johnson, the pub- 
lisher. She lived in Paris during the " Terror," and wrote 
a history of the Revolution. She was practically the pioneer 
of " Women's Rights," her best-known work being the 
" Vindication of the Rights of Women." In 1797 Mary 
Wollstonecraft married William Godwin, and died at the 
birth of her daughter Mary, who afterwards became the 
wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

To J. Johnson 

THE LAST JOURNEY OF LOUIS XVI. 

Paris, December 26, 1792- 
I should immediately oh the receipt of your letter, 
my dear friend, have thanked you for your punctuality, 




MARY WOLLSTOXECRAFT 



From a pholo hv Emery Walker, after the picture by Opie {probably 
painted in April 1797) in the National Portrait Gallery. 



p. 170] 



LOUIS XVI 171 

for it highly gratified me, had I not wished to wait till 
I could tell you that this day was not stained with blood. 
Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National 
Convention to prevent a tumult made me suppose 
that the dogs of faction would not dare to bark, much 
less to bite, however true to their scent, and I was 
not mistaken ; for the citizens, who were all called 
out, are returning home with composed countenances, 
shouldering their arms. About nine o'clock this morn- 
ing the king passed by my window, moving silently 
along (excepting now and then a few strokes on the drum, 
which rendered the stillness more awful) through empty 
streets, surrounded by the National Guards, who, cluster- 
ing round the carriage, seemed to deserve their name. 
The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the 
casements were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor did 
I see anything like an insulting gesture. For the first 
time since I entered France, I bowed to the majesty of 
the people, and respected the propriety of behaviour 
so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can 
scarcely tell you why, but an association of ideas made 
the tears flow insensibly from my eyes, when I saw 
Louis sitting, with more dignity than I expected from 
his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, 
where so many of his race have triumphed. My fancy 
instantly brought Louis XIV, before me, entering the 
capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories 
most flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine 
of his prosperity overshadowed by the sublime gloom 
of misery. I have been alone ever since ; and, though 
my mind is calm, I cannot dismiss the lively images 
that have filled my imagination all the day. Nay, 
do not smile, but pity me ; for, once or twice, lifting 



1/2 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT 

my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes glare through 
a glass door opposite my chair, and bloody hands 
shook at me. Not the distant sound of a footstep 
can I hear. My apartments are remote from those 
of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me 
in an immense hotel, one folding door opening after 
another. I wish I had even kept the cat with me ! 
I want to see something alive ; death in so many 
frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy, I am going 
to bed, and for the first time in my life I cannot put 
out the candle. 

M. W. 

Mary W ollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay 

ABSENCE 

Paris, 1793, Friday Morning. 

I am glad to find that other people can be unreason- 
able as well as myself; for be it known to thee that 
I answered thy first letter the very night it reached 
me (Sunday) , though thou couldst not receive it before 
Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next 
day. There is a full, true, and particular account. 

Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think 
that it is a proof of stupidity, and likewise of a milk- 
and-water affection, which comes to the same thing 
when the temper is governed by a square and compass. 
There is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined 
equality, and the passions always give grace to the 
actions. 

Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee ; 
but it is not to thy money-getting face, though I cannot 
be seriously displeased with the exertion which increases 



A LOVE-LETTER 173 

my esteem, or rather is what I should have expected 
from thy character. No ; I have thy honest counten- 
ance before me — relaxed by tenderness ; a little — little 
wounded by my whims ; and thy eyes glittering with 
sympathy. Thy lips then feel softer than soft, and I 
rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world. I 
have not left the hue of love out of the picture — the 
rosy glow ; and fancy has spread it over my own 
cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst a 
delicious tear trembles in my eye that would be all 
your own, if a grateful emotion directed to the Father 
of nature, who has made me thus alive to happiness, 
did not give more warmth to the sentiment it divides. 
I must pause a moment. 

Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus ? 
I do not know why, but I have more confidence in 
your affection, when absent, than present ; nay, I 
think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of 
my heart let me say it, I believe I deserve your tender- 
ness, because I am true, and have a degree of sensibility 
that you can see and relish. 

Yours sincerely, 

Mary. 



Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay 

LITTLE FANNY 

Paris, January 15, 1795. 
. . . My animal is well ; I have not yet taught her 
to eat, but nature is doing the business. I gave her 
a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth ; and now 
she has two she makes good use of them to gnaw a 
crust, biscuit, etc. You would laugh to see her ; she 



174 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT 

is just like a little squirrel ; she will guard a crust 
for two hours, and, after fixing her eyes on an object 
for some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird 
of prey — nothing can equal her life and spirits. I 
suffer from a cold, but it does not affect her. Adieu. 
Do not forget to love us — and come soon to tell us 
that you do. 

Mary. 



Mary Wollstonecraft to William Godwin 

April 20, 1797- 
. . . Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining 
with you. But I wish you to eat your meat first, and 
let her come up with the pudding. I shall probably 
knock at your door in my way to Opie's ; but should 
I not find you, let me request you not to be too late 
this evening. Do not give Fanny butter with her 
pudding. 



Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay 

IMPRESSIONS OF NORWAY 

ToNSBERG, Norway, 1795. 

I left East Russia the day before yesterday. The 
weather was very fine ; but so calm that we loitered 
on the water near fourteen hours, only to make about 
six-and-twenty miles. 

It seemed to me a sort of emancipation when we 
landed at Helzeraac. The confinement which every- 
where struck me whilst sojourning amongst the rocks 
made me hail the earth as a land of promise ; and the 



LIFE IN NORWAY 175 

situation shone with fresh lustre from the contrast — 
from appearing to be a free abode. Here it was possible 
to travel by land — I never thought this a comfort 
before, and my eyes, fatigued by the sparkling of the 
sun on the water, now contentedly reposed on the 
green expanse, half-persuaded that such verdant mead 
had never till then regaled them. 

I rose early to pursue my journey to Tonsberg. 
The country still wore a face of joy — and my soul 
was alive to its charms. Leaving the most lofty and 
romantic of the cliffs behind us, we were almost 
continually descending to Tonsberg, through Elysian 
scenes ; for not only the sea, but mountains, rivers, 
lakes, and groves, gave an almost endless variety to 
the prospect. The cottagers were still carrying home 
the hay ; and the cottages on this road looked very 
comfortable. Peace and plenty — I mean not abundance 
— seemed to reign around ; still I grew sad as I drew 
near my old abode. I was sorry to see the sun so 
high ; it was broad noon. Tonsberg was something 
like a home, yet I was to enter without lighting up 
pleasure in any eye. I dreaded the solitariness of my 
apartment, and wished for night to hide the starting 
tears, or to shed them on my pillow, and close my 
eyes on a world where I was destined to wander alone. 
Why has nature so many charms for me — calling forth 
and cherishing refined sentiments, only to wound the 
breast that fosters them ? How illusive, perhaps the 
most so, are the plans of happiness founded on virtue 
and principle ; what inlets of misery do they not open 
in a half-civilised society ? The satisfaction arising 
from conscious rectitude will not calm an injured 
heart, when tenderness is ever finding excuses ; and 



176 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT 

self -applause is a cold, solitary feeling, that cannot 
supply the place of disappointed affection, without 
throwing a gloom over every prospect, which, banishing 
pleasure, does not preclude pain. I reasoned and 
reasoned ; but my heart was too full to allow me to 
remain in the house, and I walked, till I was wearied 
out, to purchase rest — or rather forgetful ness. 

Employment has beguiled this day, and to-morrow I 
set out for Moss, in my way to Stromstad. At Gothen- 
burg I shall embrace my Fannikin ; ^ probably she will 
not know me again — and I shall be hurt if she do not. 
How childish is this ! still it is a natural feeling. I 
would not permit myself to indulge the " thick-coming 
tears " of fondness whilst I was detained by business. 
Yet I never saw a calf bounding in a meadow that 
did not remind me of my little frolicker. A calf ? you 
say. Yes ; but a capital one, I own. 

I cannot write composedly — I am every instant 
sinking into reveries — my heart flutters, I know not 
why. Fool ! It is time thou wert at rest. 

Friendship and domestic happiness are continually 
praised ; yet how little is there of either in the world, 
because it requires more cultivation of mind to keep 
awake affection, even in our own hearts, than the 
common run of people suppose. Besides, few like to 
be seen as they really are ; and a degree of simplicity, 
and of undisguised confidence, which to uninterested 
observers would almost border on weakness, is the 
charm, nay, the essence of love or friendship : all the 
bewitching graces of childhood again appearing. As 
objects merely to exercise my taste, I therefore like 
to see people together who have an affection for each 
' Her little girl Fanny. 



FRIENDSHIP 177 

other ; every turn of their features touches me, and 
remains pictured on my imagination in indelible char- 
acters. The zest of novelty is, however, necessary to 
rouse the languid sympathies which have been hackneyed 
in the world ; as is the factitious behaviour, falsely 
termed good-breeding, to amuse those who, defective 
in taste, continually rely for pleasure on their animal 
spirits, which, not being maintained by the imagination, 
are unavoidably sooner exhausted than the sentiments 
of the heart. Friendship is in general sincere at the 
commencement, and lasts whilst there is anything to 
support it ; but as a mixture of novelty and vanity 
is the usual prop, no wonder if it fall with the slender 
stay. The fop in the play payed a greater compliment 
than he was aware of when he said to a person whom 
he meant to flatter, " I like you almost as well as a 
new " acquaintance." Why am I talking of friendship, 
after which I have had such a wild-goose chase ? I 
thought only of telling you that the crows, as well as 
wild geese, are here birds of passage. 



SARAH SIDDONS (1755 1831) 

THE eldest child of an actor, Roger Kemble ; she married 
William Siddons, also an actor. Her first appearance at 
Drury Lane was at the invitation of David Garrick, but being 
unsuccessful, she returned to the provinces, where she 
remained for some years. Later she became the fore- 
most actress of the day — tragedy being her forte. Nature 
endowed her with beauty as well as genius and a voice 
of great power and sympathy. At her death a statue, the 
first erected to a woman in London (other than royalty), 
was set up in Paddington Churchyard. 

12 



178 SARAH SIDDONS 

To John Taylor 

ON HIS OFFER TO BE HER BIOGRAPHER 

Newnham Rectory, August 5, i793- 
Indeed, my dear friend, if you were to write my 
praises with the pen of men and angels, I should shrink 
from that celebrity which the partiality of so kind a 
biographer would confer ; for how could I read without 
blushes those accounts of myself, which would be 
measures of his friendship, not standards of my worthi- 
ness ? I am content that you should deceive yourself 
about my talents and my character, because I have an 
interest, and perhaps a livelier interest than most people, 
I believe, imagine, for the opinion of those who give 
themselves the trouble to think of me at all. But my 
friends in general are very much mistaken in my 
character. It has pleased God to place me in a situation 
of great publicity, but my natural disposition inclines me 
to privacy and retirement ; and, though the applause 
that is the Palm of Art is necessarily sweet to my sense, 
yet sweeter is the still small voice of tender relatives 
and estimable friends. You may therefore tell me as 
much as you please of those talents with which you say 
I am so miraculously gifted, and I will hear you with 
pleasure, and pray for continuance of your illusion. 
But do not — I conjure you, at least till opinion has a 
little more sanctioned the idea — do not bid all the world 
gaze, and wonder, and certainly laugh at my yet feeble 
efforts. 

I am very much obliged to Mrs. Robinson for her polite 
attention in sending me her poems. Pray tell her so 
with my compliments. I hope the poor, charming 
woman has quite recovered from her fall. If she is half 



PERDITA'S POEMS 179 

as amiable as her writings, I shall long for the possibility 
of being acquainted with her. I say the possibility, 
because one's whole life is one continued sacrifice of 
inclinations, which, to indulge, however laudable or 
innocent, would draw down the malice and reproach of 
those prudent people who never do ill, " but feed, and 
sleep, and do observances, to the stale ritual of quaint 
ceremony." The charming and beautiful Mrs. Robinson ! 
I pity her from the bottom of my soul ! 

Pray go and take Betsy to Marlborough Street, to see 
my bust of my little son George. I could have done 
it better, but for the extreme heat of the weather, which 
made the clay crack and dry too fast. Adieu. 

Your affec. friend, 

S. SiDDONS. 



Mrs. Siddons to Mrs. Fitzhugh 

READINGS AT WINDSOR CASTLE 

Westbourne, January 26, 1813. 

I have been these three days meditating about writing 
you an account of my Windsor visit, which you have, 
no doubt, seen mentioned in the newspapers ; but, 
whether occasioned by the fatigue of that visit, or from 
an habitual tendency, my head has been more heavy 
and painful since my return home than it has been for 
many months ; but though very far from well at present, 
I cannot resist the pleasure of telling you myself what I 
know you will be gratified to hear. — Take it thus and 
verbatim. 

On the 1 8th (I think it was) I was in the middle of 
dressing to go and dine with Mrs. Damer, when an 



i8o SARAH SIDDONS 

especial messenger arrived in the dusk, with a letter 
from my old friend the Dowager Lady Stewart, to tell 
me that the Queen had ordered her to write and say 
" that her Majesty wished very much to hear me read, 
and desired to have an answer returned immediately 
to Carlton House, where the party from Windsor dined 
that day," which was Wednesday. I of course wrote 
that I should be happy to have the honour of obeying 
the Queen's commands, and therefore left my own house 
on Friday, according to appointment, and went to Frog- 
more, where I was informed that everything would be 
prepared for my arrival. I got there about three, and 
was conducted into a very elegant drawing-room, where 
I sat till it was time to go to the Castle and consult with 
Lady Stewart respecting the reading. I spent about 
an hour very agreeably in her apartment with herself 
and Princess Elizabeth, who appears the best natured 
person in the world. We concluded for some part of 
Henry VIII., some part of The Merchant of Venice, 
and to finish with some scenes from Hamlet. After 
this I dined with Madame Bechendoft, her Majesty's 
confidential gentlewoman. When Lady Harcourt re- 
turned, after dining with the Queen, I again went to 
her apartment, where Princess Elizabeth renewed her 
visit, and staid and chatted very charmingly, of course, 
because her conversation was chiefly about the pleasure 
they had all formerly received from my exertions, and 
the delight of hearing me again. We then parted 
for the night, the ladies to the Queen's card-party, and I 
to Frogmore, w^here the steward and housekeeper came 
to me to say that her Majesty and the Princess had been 
there in the morning, and had left a message, to desire 
that I would consider myself as in my own house, with 



READINGS AT WINDSOR CASTLE i8i 

repeated injunctions to make my residence there as 
agreeable as possible. The next day the whole Royal 
party from Windsor, with Princess Charlotte and the 
Dukes of Cambridge and Clarence, dined at Frogmore. 
Many of the nobility and gentry were invited to the read- 
ing ; and at about half-past eight I entered the room where 
they were all assembled. The Queen, the Princesses, and 
the Duchess of York, all came to me, and conversed 
most graciously, till the Queen took her place. Then 
the company seated themselves, and I began. It all went 
off to my heart's content, for the room was the finest 
place for the voice in the world. I retired sometimes, 
at her Majesty's request, to rest ; and when it was over 
I had the extreme satisfaction to find that they had all 
been extremely delighted. Lady Stewart wrote to me 
yesterday that I am still the inexhaustible fund of con- 
versation and eulogium. When the Queen retired, 
after the reading, Lady Stewart brought to me a 
magnificent gold chain, with a cross of many coloured 
jewels, from her Majesty, and hung it round my neck 
before all the company. This was a great surprise, 
and you may imagine how so great an honour affected 
me. You may conceive, too, the pleasure it gave me 
to be able to divert a few of those mournfully monotonous 
hours which these amiable sufferers, from the singularly 
afflicting nature of their misfortune, are doomed to 
undergo. I found that the Queen had been desirous 
that I should not return the next day, but stay and read 
again to her at the Castle next night, which I was too 
happy to do. This reading consisted of passages from 
" Paradise Lost," " Gray's Elegy," and " Marmion." 
When I went into the room I found her Majesty, with 
all the Princesses, and the Princess Charlotte, seated. 



1 82 SARAH SIDDONS 

and a table and chair prepared for me, which she (most 
graciously saying she was sure I must still feel fatigued 
from the last night's exertion) ordered me to seat myself 
in, when I thanked her for the magnificent favour I had 
received, and hoped the reading of the preceding night 
had not fatigued her Majesty, for she really had a terrible 
cough and cold. She hoped that the keepsake would 
remind me of Frogmore, and said " that it was im- 
possible to be fatigued when she was so extremely 
delighted." I then took my leave, intending to return 
home the next day, which was Monday, but, having 
long meditated a short visit to Lord and Lady Harcourt, 
who live at St. Leonard's Hill, about four miles from 
Frogmore, I called there, and Lady Harcourt persuaded 
me to remain with her, and was so good as to make me 
send for Cecilia and Miss Wilkinson. While I was there 
I received another command from her Majesty ; and 
the next Sunday evening I read Othello to the Royal 
party at the Castle ; and here my story ends. I have 
much to say if I had eyes and head ; my heart, however, 
is still strong, and I am, with undiminished affection. 

Yours, 

S. S. 



MARIA .EDGEWORTH (1767-1849) 

A DAUGHTER of Richard Lovell Edgeworth, a member of an 
old Irish family settled at Edgeworthstown, co. Longford. 
Miss Edgeworth began to write at an early age, and in all 
published over twenty volumes. She was devoted to her 
father, who greatly assisted her in her literary work. During 
her lifetime she enjoyed a great reputation, being feted in 
London and Paris. In her old age she learned Spanish and 



MR. EDGEWORTH'S FOURTH WIFE 183 

delighted in reading history. Miss Edgeworth wrote a very- 
popular series of stories for children and some novels, of 
which " Castle Rackrent," " The Absentee," and " Ormond " 
are still remembered. 



To Miss Beaufort ^ 

A LETTER OF CONGRATULATION 

Edgeworthstown, May 16, 1798. 
Whilst you, my dear Miss Beaufort, have been toiling 
in Dublin, my father has been delighting himself in 
preparations for June. The little boudoir looks as if 
it intends to be pretty. This is the only room in the 
house which my father will allow to be finished, as he 
wishes that your taste should finish the rest. Like the 
man who begged to have the eclipse put off, we have 
been here praying to have the spring put ofT, as this 
place never looks so pretty as when the lilacs and 
laburnums are in full flower. I fear, notwithstanding 
all our prayers, that their purple and yellow honours 
will be gone before your arrival. There is one other 
flower which I am sure will not be in blow for you, " a 
little w^estern flower called love in idleness." Amongst 
the many kindnesses my father has shown me, the 
greatest, I think, has been his permitting me to see his 
heart a decouverte ; and I have seen, by your kind 
sincerity and his, that in good and cultivated minds 
love is no idle passion, but one that inspires useful and 

1 Written on the occasion of her father's fourth marriage. This, 
and the following letters of Maria Edgeworth, are printed by the 
kind permission of Mrs. Butler, Mr. A. E. Edgeworth, and Pro- 
fessor Edgeworth, the only surviving niece and nephews of Miss 
Edgeworth. 



1 84 MARIA EDGEWORTH 

generous energy. I have been convinced by your 
example of what I was always inclined to believe, that 
the power of feeling affection is increased by the cultiva- 
tion of the understanding. The wife of our Indian 
yogii (if a yogii be permitted to have a wife) might be 
a very affectionate woman, but her sympathy with her 
husband could not have a very extensive sphere. As 
his eyes are to be continually fixed upon the point of his 
nose, hers, in duteous sympathy, must squint in like 
manner ; and if the perfection of his virtue be to sit so 
still that the birds {vide Sacontala) may unmolested 
build nests in his hair, his wife cannot better show her 
affection than by yielding her tresses to them with 
similar patient stupidity. Are there not European 
yogiis, or men whose ideas do not go much further than 
le bout du nez ? And how delightful it must be to be 
chained for better for worse to one of this species I I 
should guess — for I know nothing of the matter — that 
the courtship of an ignorant lover must be almost as 
insipid as a marriage with him ; for " my jewel " con- 
tinually repeated, without new setting, must surely 
fatigue a little. 

You call yourself, dear Miss Beaufort, my friend and 
companion : I hope you will never have reason to repent 
beginning in this style towards me. I think you will 
not find me encroach upon you. The overflowings of 
your kindness, if I know anything of my own heart, 
will fertilise the land, but will not destroy the landmarks. 
I do not know whether I most hate or despise the temper 
which will take an ell where an inch is given. A well- 
bred person never forgets that species of respect which 
is due to situation and rank. Though his superiors in 
rank treat him with the utmost condescension, he never 



A SYMPATHETIC STEP-DAUGHTER 185 

is " Hail fellow well met " with them : he never calls 
them Jack or Tom by way of increasing his own con- 
sequence. 

I flatter myself that you will find me gratefully exact, 
en belle fille. I think there is a great deal of difference 
between that species of ceremony which exists with 
acquaintance, and that which should always exist with 
the best of friends : the one prevents the growth of 
affection, the other preserves it in youth and age. Many 
foolish people make fine plantations, and forget to fence 
them ; so the young trees are destroyed by the young 
cattle, and the bark of the forest trees is sometimes 
injured. You need not, dear Miss Beaufort, fence your- 
self round with very strong palings in this family, where 
all have been early accustomed to mind their boundaries. 
As for me, you see my intentions, or at least my theories, 
are good enough ; if my practice be but half as good, 
you will be content, will you not ? But Theory was 
born in Brobdingnag, and Practice in Lilliput, So 
much the better for me. I have often considered, since 
my return home, as I have seen all this family pursuing 
their several occupations and amusements, how much 
you will have it in your power to add to their happiness. 
In a stupid or indolent family your knowledge and 
talents would be thrown away ; here, if it may be said 
without vanity, they will be the certain source of your 
daily happiness. You will come into a new family, but 
you will not come as a stranger, dear Miss Beaufort ; 
you will not lead a new life, but only continue to lead 
the life you have been used to in your own happy, 
cultivated family. 



1 86 MARIA EDGEWORTH 

Maria Edgeworth to Mrs. Mary Sneyd 

Paris, January lo, 1803. 
Steele reparateur, as Monge has christened this century. 
CELEBRITIES AT PARIS 

My dear Aunt Mary, — I will give you a journal of 
yesterday. I know you love journals. Got up and put 
on our shoes and stockings and cambric muslin gowns, 
which are in high esteem here, fur-tippets, and fur-clogs, 
— God bless Aunt Mary and Aunt Charlotte for them — 
and were in coach by nine o'clock ; drove to the excellent 
Abbe Morellet's, where we were invited to breakfast to 
meet Madame d'Ouditot, the lady who inspired Rousseau 
with the idea of Julie. Julie is now seventy-two years 
of age, a thin woman in a little black bonnet : she 
appeared to me shockingly ugly ; she squints so much 
that it is impossible to tell which way she is looking ; 
but no sooner did I hear her speak than I began to like 
her, and no sooner was I seated beside her than I 
began to find in her countenance a most benevolent and 
agreeable expression. She entered into conversation 
immediately : her manner invited and could not fail to 
obtain confidence. She seems as gay and open-hearted 
as a girl of fifteen. It has been said of her that she 
not only never did any harm, but never suspected any 
She is possessed of that art which Lord Kames said he 
would prefer to the finest gift from the queen of the 
fairies — the art of seizing the best side of every object. 
She has had great misfortunes, but she has still retained 
the power of making herself and her friends happy. 

Even during the horrors of the Revolution, if she 
met with a flower, a butterfly, an agreeable smell, a 



ROUSSEAU 187 

pretty colour, she would turn her attention to these, 
and for the moment suspend her sense of misery, not 
from frivolity, but from real philosophy. No one has 
exerted themselves with more energy in the service of 
her friends. I felt in her company the delightful 
influence of a cheerful temper, and soft, attractive 
manners — enthusiasm which age cannot extinguish, 
and which spends, but does not waste itself on small 
but not trifling objects. I wash I could at seventy- two 
be such a woman ! She told me that Rousseau, whilst 
he was writing so finely on education, and leaving his 
own children in the Foundling Hospital, defended 
himself with so much eloquence that even those who 
blamed him in their hearts could not find tongues to 
answer him. Once at dinner at Madame d'Ouditot's, 
there was a fine pyramid of fruit. Rousseau, in helping 
himself, took the peach which formed the base of the 
pyramid, and the rest fell immediately. " Rousseau," 
said she, " that is what you always do with all our 
systems : you pull down with a single touch ; but who 
will build up what you pull down ? " I asked if he 
was grateful for all the kindness shown to him. " No," 
he was ungrateful ; he had a thousand bad qualities, 
but I turned my attention from them to his genius 
and the good he had done mankind. 

After our excellent breakfast, including tea, chocolate, 
co£fee, buttered and unbuttered cakes, good conversa- 
tion, and good humour, came M. Cheron, husband of 
the Abbe Morellet's niece, who is translating " Eaily 
Lessons," ^ French on one side and English on the other. 
Didot has undertaken to publish the " Rational Primer," 

' " Early Lessons " and the " Rational Primer " are two of 
Miss Edgeworth's books. 



i88 MARIA EDGEWORTH 

which is much approved of here for teaching the true 
English pronunciation. 

Then we went to a lecture on Shorthand, or Passi- 
graphy, and there we met Mr. Chenevix, who came 
home to dine with us, and stayed till nine, talking of 
Montgolfier's belier for throwing water to a great height. 
We have seen it and its inventor : something like Mr. 
Watt in manner, not equal to him in genius. He had 
received from M. de la Poype a letter my father wrote 
some years ago, about the method of guiding balloons, 
and as far as he could judge, he thought it might succeed. 

We went, with Madame Recamier and the Russian 
Princess Dalgowski, to La Harpe's house, to hear him 
repeat some of his own verses. He lives in a wretched 
house, and we went up dirty stairs, through dirty 
passages, where I wondered how fine ladies' trains and 
noses could go, and were received in a dark, small den 
by the philosopher, or rather devot, for he spurns the 
name of philosopher. He was in a dirty reddish night- 
gown, and very dirty nightcap bound round the fore- 
head with a superlatively dirty chocolate-coloured 
ribbon. Madame Recamier, the beautiful, the elegant, 
robed in white satin, trimmed with white fur, seated 
herself on the elbow of his armchair, and besought him 
to repeat his verses. Charlotte has drawn a picture 
of this scene. We met at La Harpe's, Lady Elizabeth 
Chester and Lady Bessborough : very engaging manners. 

We were a few days ago at a bal d'enfants ; this 
you would translate a children's ball, and so did we, 
till we were set right by the learned — not a single 
child was at this ball, and only half a dozen unmarried 
ladies : it is a ball given by mothers to their grov/n-up 
children. Charlotte appeared as usual to great advan- 



THE POET'S DEN 189 

tage, and was much admired for her ease and unaffected 
manners. She danced one English country dance 
with M. de Crillon, son of the Gibraltar Duke : when 
she stood up, a gentleman came to me and exclaimed, 
*' Ah, Mademoiselle, votre soeur va danser, nous attendons 
le moment ou elle va parattre." She appeared extremely 
well from not being anxious to appear at all. To-day 
we stayed at home to gain time for letters, etc., but 
thirteen visitors, besides the washerwoman, prevented 
our accomplishing all our great and good purposes. 
The visitors were all, except the washerwoman, so 
agreeable, that even while they interrupted us we did 
not know how to wish them gone. 



Maria Edgeworth to Lucy Edgeworth 

THE BAILLIES' CAT 
Miss Baillie's, Hampstead, January 12, 1822. 

I have been four days resolving to get up half an hour 
earlier that I might have time to tell you, my dear 
Lucy, the history of a cat of Joanna and Agnes Baillie's. 

You may, perhaps, have heard the name of a cele- 
brated Mr. Brodie, who wrote on Poisons, and whose 
papers on this subject are to be found in the Trans- 
actions of the Royal Society, and reviewed in the Edinburgh 
Review in 181 1. He brought some of the Woorara 
poison, with which the natives poison their arrows and 
destroy their victims. It was his theory that this 
poison destroys by affecting the nervous system only, 
and that after a certain time its effects on the nerves 
would cease, as the effects of intoxicating liquors 
cease, and that the patient might recover, if the lungs 



190 MARIA EDGEWORTH 

could be kept in play, if respiration were not suspended 
during the trance or partial death in which the patient 
lies. To prove the truth of this by experiment, he 
fell to work on a cat ; he pricked the cat with the 
point of a lance dipped in Woorara. It was some 
minutes before the animal became convulsed, and 
then it lay, to all appearance, dead. Mr. Brodie applied 
a tube to its mouth, and blew air into it from time 
to time. After lying some hours apparently lifeless, 
it recovered, shook itself, and went about its own 
affairs as usual. This was tried several times, much 
to the satisfaction of the philosophical spectators, 
but not quite to the satisfaction of poor Puss, who 
grew very thin, and looked so wretched that Dr. Baillie's 
son, then a boy, took compassion on this poor subject 
of experiment, and begged Mr. Brodie would let him 
carry off the cat. With or without consent, he did 
carry her off, and brought her to his aunts, Joanna and 
Agnes Baillie. Then puss's prosperous days began. 
Agnes made a soft bed for her in her own room, and 
by night and day she was the happiest of cats ; she 
was called Woorara, which in time shortened into 
Woory. I wish I could wind up Woory's history by 
assuring you that she was the most attached and grateful 
of cats, but truth forbids. A few weeks after her 
arrival at Hampstead, she marched off and never was 
heard of more. It is supposed that she took to evil 
courses ; tasted the blood and bones of her neighbour's 
chickens, and fell at last a sacrifice to the vengeance 
of a cookmaid. 

After this cat's departure Agnes took to heart a 
kitten, who was very fond of her. This kitten, the 
first night she slept in her room, on wakening in the 



MRS. SIDDONS 191 

morning looked up from the hearth at Agnes, who was 
lying awake, but with her eyes half-shut, and marked 
all pussy's motions ; after looking some instants, puss 
jumped up on the bed, crept softly forward and put 
her paw, with its glove on, upon one of Miss Baillie's 
eyelids and pushed it gently up. Miss Baillie looked 
at her fixedly, and puss, as if satisfied that her eyes were 
there and safe, went back to her station on the hearth 
and never troubled herself more about the matter. 

To finish this chapter on cats. I saw yesterday at 
a lady's house at Hampstead, a real Persian cat, brought 
over by a Navy captain, her brother. It has long 
hair like a dog, and a tail like a terrier's, only with 
longer hair. It is the most gentle, depressed-looking 
creature I ever saw ; it seems to have the mal du pays, 
and, moreover, had the cholic the morning I saw it, 
and Agnes Baillie had a spoonful of castor-oil poured 
out for it, but it ran away. . . . 



Maria Edgeworth to Mrs. Ruxton 

MRS. SIDDONS'S REMINISCENCES 

8, HoLLES Street, April 10, 1822. 
. . . Through Lydia White we have become more 
acquainted with Mrs. Siddons than I ever expected to 
be. She gave us the history of her first acting of Lady 
Macbeth, and of her resolving, in the sleep scene, to 
lay down the candlestick, contrary to the precedent 
of Mrs. Pritchard and all the traditions, before she 
began to wash her hands and say, " Out, vile spot ! " 
Sheridan knocked violently at her door during the 
five minutes she had desired to have entirely to herself. 



192 MARIA EDGEWORTH 

to compose her spirits before the play began. He 
burst in and prophesied that she would ruin herself for 
ever if she persevered in this resolution to lay down the 
candlestick. She persisted, however, in her deter- 
mination, succeeded, was applauded, and Sheridan 
begged her pardon. She described well the awe she 
felt, and the power of the excitement given to her by 
the sight of Burke, Fox, Sheridan, and Sir Joshua 
Reynolds in the pit. She invited us to a private reading- 
party at her own house ; present only her daughter, 
a very pretty young lady, a Mrs. Vv^ilkinson, Mr. Burney, 
Dr. Holland, Lydia White, Mr. Harness and ourselves. 
She read one of her finest parts, and that best suited 
to a private room — Queen Katherine. She was dressed 
so as to do well for the two parts she was to perform 
this night — of gentlewoman and queen — black velvet, 
with black-velvet cap and feathers. She sat the whole 
time, and with a large Shakespeare before her ; as she 
knew the part of Katherine by heart, she seldom re- 
quired the help of glasses, and she recited it incom- 
parably well : the changes of her countenance were 
striking. From her first burst of indignation when she 
objects to the Cardinal as her judge, to her last expiring 
scene, was all so perfectly natural and so touching, we 
could give no applause but tears. Mrs. Siddons is 
beautiful even at this moment. Some who had seen 
her on the stage in this part, assured me that it had 
a much greater effect upon them in a private room, 
because they were near enough to see the changes of 
her countenance, and to hear the pathos of her half- 
suppressed voice. Some one said that in the dying 
scene her very pillow seemed sick. 

She spoke afterwards of the different parts which 



WILLIAM COWPER 193 

she had liked and disUked to act ; and when she men- 
tioned the characters and scenes she had found easy 
or difficult, it was curious to observe that the feelings 
of the actress and the sentiments and reasons of the 
best critics meet. Whatever was not natural, or 
inconsistent with the main part of the character, she 
found she never could act well. . , ,. 



HARRIET, LADY HESKETH (1733-1807) 

WAS the wife of Thomas Hesketh, who was created a baronet 
in 1 76 1. Lady Hesketh was one of the chief correspondents 
and friends of her cousin, WilHam Cowper, the poet. 



To Rev. John Johnson ^ 

WILLIAM COWPER 

Weston, July 17, 1794. 
Though this cannot go till to-morrow, I yet cannot 
help writing this evening to tell you, my good Johnny, 
how truly glad I am to think that in the space of a 
few days you will really be here to share in my in- 
effectual labours for the good of our unhappy cousin. 2 
You may easily believe the Task sustained by me, and 
me alone has been a severe one, it has, indeed, and 
tho' I confess I do not feel it with the same acuteness 
that I did during the first three months (for then, I 
think, I must have dyed) yet 'tis certain my sufferings 

1 This, and the three following letters are reprinted from the 
" Letters of Lady Hesketh to the Rev. John Johnson," by kind 
permission of the Editor, Mrs. Catherine Bodham Johnson, and to 
Messrs. Jarrold & Sons, the publishers. 

2 William Cowper. 

13 



194 LADY HESKETH 

have not been small who have sustained the weight of 
this affliction alone more than four months out of the 
seven that our dear Cousin has laboured under this 
cruel calamity ! but you will come certainly, my good 
Johnny, and I shall have at least the comfort of con- 
sulting you and hearing your opinion on many things 
relative to this unhappy Man, which at present distress 
me not a little. I wish, too, for your opinion of him, 
for as it is so long since you saw him, you will be enabled 
better to judge of the alteration there may be in him 
than I can do, who see him every day. That you will 
think him much thinner than when you left him I 
conclude, but his face looks better than it did. Indeed 
I want sadly to know what you really think of him ? 
He continues dreadfully low, to be sure, and the terrors 
of being carried away and being torn in pieces seem 
to agitate him as much as ever ; but there is one favour- 
able symptom certainly, that is that he evidently 
attends to me when I read, and is even desirous I should, 
as he has asked me more than once if I expect books 
from Hookham, and he never, unless he could help it, 
leaves the room when I am reading. This is doubtless 
an alteration for the better, as it used to seem to hurt 
him very much, and I really left it off for some time 
on his account, as he would sometimes go out of the 
room quite in a rage ! a thing you'll allow very un- 
common for him, and is a great comfort this change 
has taken place, for it pleases the Enchantress ^ very 
much to be read to, and is far less laborious and fatiguing 
to me, than to listen to those Inexplicable sounds she 
makes, poor Soul ! and which when one has by dint of 
pains-taking found out her meaning pays one so ill for 
1 Mrs. Unwin. 



BENEFITS FROM CUPPING 195 

one's trouble, and now let me say^that I rejoice from 
my heart (as things are now circumstanced) that you 
have renounced your abominable Curacy. Could we 
once see this dear Soul restored you might then have 
ten Curacies instead of one, but indeed at present that 
your presence is so necessary at Weston, I have long 
lamented your being hampered with it, I hope there- 
fore you mean to give it up to Mr. Butcher as you 
said you would write to him and I wish it because 
I know by so doing you will find a warm friend in Mr. 
Hill to the latest hour of your Existence as no man is 
more sensible of favours conferred on his Friends. 
As you say you shall pass all Wednesday in London it 
is a great Temptation to be sure, to torment you with 
commissions, but I do not think I know anything at 
this moment that I could wish to distract you about 
except to desire you to bring me a small bottle of Smyths 
Lavender Water in case you go through Bond Street, 
it must be that composed by James Smyth and Sons, 
Perfumers to His Majesty, New Bond Street — as the 
same Mr. Smyth may possibly have the true Eau-de- 
Cologne you may bring a bottle for your own sake, 
who I know will be very sick and want it — apropos 
of being sick I charge you not to see my face, till you 
have been cupp'd. Mr. Watkyns at the Bagnioin 
Belton Street opposite Browlow St. Long Acre, cupps 
extremely well and will not detain you more than 
Ten minutes. I beg therefore you will have it done, 
for you will find your thick blood marvellously relieved 
by it, it is worth all the leeches in the Universe, if 
you were to be Stuck as full of them as the man in the 
Almanack is stuck full of Darts and there can be no 
shadow of an objection — as it is not like bleeding and 



196 LADY HESKETH 

if it does you no good you are morally sure it cannot 
hurt you. Indeed I am serious, and I think it will be 
very necessary ceremony previous to your making 
this Interesting visit, especially this hot weather, and 
now my Sir John (for I observe in old plays many 
Clergymen are Baronets, and indeed in real life one 
meets with many) I will detain you no longer either 
from your Church dutys, or the many others you will 
have to perform by leave-taking, etc. : I wish I knew 
your Uncle and Aunt Bodham that I might thank them 
for allowing you to come where indeed you are so much 
wanted and where you will find one at least truly glad 
to see you in, 

Yours sincerely, 

H. H. 

Lady Hesketh to the Rev. John Johnson 

READING TO COWPER 

Cheltenham, September 24, 1798. 

With this letter my good Sir John I shall send for 
the use of your fair Sister two different Muslins which 
I hope she will approve and will oblige me by accepting 
as a very small proof indeed of my gratitude for her 
unrivalled kindness and attention to our Invaluable 
Friend. Had I been in London I could have made 
more choice and might perhaps have found something 
more worthy of her acceptance. 

I can only say that those I have sent appeared to me 
good of their kind — the Cambrick Muslin I believe 
has no fault except looking tumbled and dirty which 
I was vexed at, but could not help, and I preferred 
it to some much cleaner to look at, because they were 



CAMBRICK MUSLIN 197 

at the same time coarser. The piece I have sent con- 
sists of Ten yards — yd. and half wide — which I sincerely 
hope may make it useful to Mrs. Hewitt. There are 
6 yds. of the other of which the breadth is the same, 
and which I know is more than she will put in a Gown. 
Pray give my kind Compts, to the fair lady in question 
and tell her I sincerely wish her Health to wear out 
many such muslins. And now dear Sir John having 
paid my Respects to your good Sister, let me proceed 
to thank you for your letter and for the cheering hopes 
you give me of our beloved Cousin's improved health. 
I am anxiously desirous to hope on this Interesting 
Subject and yet cannot help having many fears, lest the 
little ray of Sunshine we thought was visible some 
weeks ago may have been obscured ! in general I have 
understood from those who have before seen this dear 
Creature in the same unhappy way, that his Recoverys 
are generally very Rapid, which certainly is not the 
case at present, or I should have heard from him again. 
I will however try the effect of another letter, as I think 
a few lines from me cannot hurt him, even if they do 
no good, and the wishes he so kindly expressed of 
seeing me once more gave me I own great hopes that 
this invaluable Friend and Relation was likely to be 
once more himself ! When he is, I well know how 
much he loves and is attached to his Friends, and 
among that happy number I am vain enough to think 
there are few who have a higher place in his esteem 
than myself ! but alas ! when his fine understanding 
and excellent heart are sunk and obscured in the Shades 
of melancholy, he loves nobody, nor will he be per- 
suaded that anybody loves him. I had a letter a few 
weeks ago from Lady Spencer who desires me to make 



198 LADY HESKETH 

her grateful acknowledgements for one she had received 
from you, she says she would not answer it herself, 
because she would not give you additional trouble — 
and this was I daresay one reason — another very just 
one might relate to herself, for I know that her corre- 
spondencies are so very numerous, that she might 
employ 3 secretarys without any one of them running 
the chance of an idle Hour. Her Ladyship is enchanted 
with you and your Sister, and seems much pleased 
with your Reception of her. She charged me to tell 
you that she shall never come into Norfolk without 
calling at Dereham — she expressed some apprehensions 
that her visit might have been ill-timed in respect to 
our dear Cousin, who She thought was distressed by 
it. I am not however of her Ladyship's Opinion, 
for his Consenting to see her is a full proof that it gave 
him no pain — when well I know how much he admires 
that dear Lady and what pleasure he takes in her 
company and Conversation, but I do not believe by 
what he wrote to me that this was by any m_eans the 
case at that time, he appeared not to consider her 
visit as directed to him but to the House, and the 
Room where he sat, which he said she seemed to approve 
very much. And now let me say that I rejoice you 
have been able to give him a Specimen of his own 
works by reading them over to him, but I am sorry 
your voice [broke ?] under it but can hardly wonder, 
as I know how apt you are to be hoarse, and a Poem 
in blank Verse is a great Tryal. You ought to have 
had a large collection of the Patirosa lozenges at your 
Elbow, before you entered upon this arduous Task — if 
you can't easily get at those you should apply very 
frequently to Sugar-Candy and Barley-Sugar to keep 



"JOHN GILPIN" 199 

your Throttle moist and take care whatever you do besides 
not to begin under yr. voice. I know you are apt 
when you read to begin in an unnatural under Voice, 
which is more trying and fatiguing Twenty times than 
if you were to Hollow [sic] take notice I don't mean 
to recommend that other extreme only as being less 
hurtfull than the former. I don't wonder our dear 
friend prohibited John Gilpin, as he seems always since 
his unhappy illness to suffer martyrdom from the idea 
of having wrote it ! When it shall please God to 
bring him once more to Himself and to the right use 
of his facultys, I flatter myself he will see it in the same 
light that other people do, and be as pleased with it 
as they are. The moment you can tell me that this 
dear Soul is capable of laughing at dear Johnny Gilpin 
I shall be sure he is well and quite himself. I conclude 
our little friend Rose is returned to London, but I 
have not had even a line from him, by which I conclude 
he had no agreeable news to tell me. If he had I 
know he would have delighted to communicate it. I 
must beg when you write next my good Sir John 
that you will let me know how our dear Cousin received 
him, and what he thought of his visit ? by the way 
when you write next you may direct to Clifton near 
Bristol as I believe I shall be there the week after 
next — that is about ye loth of Oct. and if I am not 
it will be sent to me. Before I conclude I must desire 
your good and pretty Sister will not think herself 
under any necessity to write to me, I shall with pleasure 
receive her Approbation of the Muslins from your Pen, 
This tell her and believe me. 

Your obliged and faithfull servt., 

H. Hesketh. 



200 LADY HESKETH 

How am I to pay the money that may be owing 
to Sam's Mother or Aunt ? Will the Rose convey it 
to the good Samaritan ? If he can I will pay him 
again. By the way it occurs to me that a Silver Stan- 
dish plainer than that intended for Hayley may be a 
very proper present to Dr. Gregson think of it yourself 
and consult the Rose — tho' I am afraid he has quite 
forgot that I wished him to bespeak a very elegant 
one as a present from our Cousin to his friend Hayley 
who ought long since to have had some Token of his 
remembrance. 



Lady Hesketh to the Rev. John Johnson 

ADVICE TO THE LEAN 

Bath, April 25, 1799. 

I am glad I have not a Frank for I heartily wish this 
letter might cost you 75. instead of 8 pence ! 

Why thou wickedest of mortals ! how could you be 
so barbarous as to own to me that our dear friend 
had written two little original Pieces and not to send 
them to me ! O thou Savage Monster more Cruel than 
all the monsters of the Desert ! worse even than Buona- 
parte and all his myrmidons — write them out directly, 
and send them to me, if you expect to die quietly in 
your bed \vith yr. Friends crying round you as an 
honest man ought to do. I know not what you think 
or how at such a time you could find leisure to look 
thro' black Crape, but I am so out of myself with joy 
at the idea of his having written anything which I look 
upon as so sure a proof of the Restoration of his faculties 
that I almost could hear unmoved the account of his 



COWPER'S DIET 201 

Leanness tho' that is so different from the account 
the Rose gave of him in the Winter. I am very glad 
you purpose giving him asses milk which I know must 
be the best thing he can take — I grieve to think of his 
poor Teeth being loose — but that Misfortune will make 
Chicken seem as tough as (?) — Beef — one thing I would 
advise that if you feed yr. Chickens at home, you would 
always put brown Sugar the coarsest you can get in 
their victuals — it Fats them much better and makes 
them very tender, and extremely good — believe me 
pray. I will send you two or three Recipes on the 
other side this paper of things quite proper for our 
dear Cousin — extremely nourishing — easy to eat and 
what I have no doubt he will like. 

Till his digestion is stronger you must not attempt 
to give him solid meat — Sago puddings, blancmanges, 
jellys, and the like, are best, but before I proceed to 
the Receipt let me say that I insist my good Johnny 
(for I have taken a little out in my chair and my fury 
against you is somewhat appeased, therefore do I call 
you good Johnny) that you send me his verses forth- 
with — and moreover do I insist likewise that you will 
not on any account let any human Being see one line 
of them but Me — there are many reasons for this which 
shall all be detailed to you in time, tho' 'tis more than 
possible you may guess them, at present you have only 
to obey my arbitrary commands. 

Adieu and may Heaven prosper you as you observe 
the directions of, 

Yrs. sincerely, 

H. H. 



202 LADY MORGAN 

SYDNEY OWENSON (Lady Morgan) (1780-1859) 

WAS the daughter of Robert Owenson, an Irish theatrical 
manager. She married Thomas Charles Morgan, M.D., who 
was afterwards knighted. In order to support her family 
after the death of her father she became a governess and 
subsequently an author, writing many novels — " The Wild 
Irish Girl," etc. — which were well known in their day. Lord 
Melbourne granted her a pension in 1837 in recognition of 
her literary work. 

To her Father 

THE PAINTED PIGEON 
St. Andrew's Street, Dublin, Sunday Night, 9 o'clock, [1796 ?] 
My DEAREST Sir and most dear Papa, — You see 
how soon I begin to fulfil your commands, for you are 
not many hours gone. But you bid me not let a day . 
pass before I began a journal and telling you all that 
happens to your two poor loving little girls, who were 
never so unhappy in all their lives as when they saw 
the yellow chaise wheels turn down the corner of Trinity 
Street, and lose sight of you, there we remained with our 
necks stretched out of the window, and Molly crying 
over us, " Musha, Musha ! " when, looking up, she 
suddenly cried out, " See what God has sent to comfort 
ye ! " and it w^as indeed remarkable that at that very 
moment the heavy clouds that rested over the dome of 
the round church just opposite, broke away, and in a 
burst of sunshine, down came flying a beautiful gold- 
coloured bird, very much resembling that beautiful 
picture in the picture-gallery in Kilkenny Castle which 
we so lately saw. Well, sir, it came fluttering down to 
the very sill of the window, Molly thinking, I believe, 
it was a miracle sent to comfort us, when, lo and behold, 



THE UNDERGRADUATE 203 

dearest papa, what should it turn out to be but Mrs. 
Skee's old Tom pigeon, who roosts every night on the 
top of St. Andrew's, and whom her mischievous son had 
painted yellow ! 

Olivia made great game of Saint Molly and her miracle, 
and made such a funny sketch of her as made me die 
laughing, and that cheered us both up. After breakfast, 
Molly dressed us " neat as hands and pins could make 
us," she said, and we went to church ; but just as we 
were stepping out of the hall door, who should come 
plump against us but James Carter, and he looked so 
well and handsome in his new college robe and square 
cap (the first time he had ever put them on) and a 
beautiful prayer-book in his hand, that we really did 
not know him. He said he had forgotten to leave a 
message for us on his way to the college chapel, from 
his grandma, to beg that we would come in next door 
and dine with her, as we must be very lonely after our 
father's departure, which offer, of course, we accepted ; 
and he said with his droll air, " If you will allow me the 
honour, I will come in and escort you at four o'clock." 
" No, sir," said Molly, who hates him, and who said he 
only wanted to come in and have a romp with Miss Livy, 
" there is no need, as your grandmother lives only next 
door " ; and so we went to church and Molly went to 
Mass ; and all this diverted our grief though it did not 
vanquish it. Well, we had such a nice dinner ! It is 
impossible to tell you how droll James Carter was, and 
how angry he made the dear old lady, who put him 
down constantly, with, " You forget, sir, that you are 
now a member of the most learned university in the 
world, and no longer a scrubby school boy." Well, 
the cloth was scarcely removed and grace said by James 



204 LADY MORGAN 

(by the bye with such a long face), when he started up 
and said, " Come, girls, let us have a stroll in the College 
Park whilst Granny takes her nap." Oh, if you could 
only see Granny's face. " No, sir," said she, " the 
girls, as you are pleased to call the young ladies your 
cousins, shall not go and stroll with you among a pack 
of young collegians and audacious nursery-maids. Now 
that you are a member of the most learned university 
in the world, you mJght stay quiet at home on the Lord's 
day, and read a sermon for your young friends, or at 
least recommend them some good book to read whilst 
Granny takes her nap." All this time Jem looked the 
image of Mawworm in the play, and then taking two 
books off the window seats, he gave one to each of us, 
and said, " Mark, learn, and inwardly digest till I 
return." 

The next moment he was flying by the window and 
kissing hands, and so Granny and the old black cat 
purring together, fell fast asleep, and we took up our 
books and seated ourselves in each of the parlour 
windows. Now what do you think, papa, these books 
were? Olivia's was "Sheridan's Dictionary," and mine 
was an " Essay on the Human Understanding," by Mr. 
Locke, gent, I was going to throw mine down, but, struck 
by some anecdotes about children, which brought me back 
to my dear old days at Drumcondra, I began at the 
beginning and read on for a full hour and a half. How 
it set me thinking from the moment when I had not a 
thought or an idea, which was the case in my infancy, 
for it is clear that we have no innate ideas when we are 
born, which certainly never struck me before ; and this 
set me thinking upon what I could longest remember, 
and / think if was the smell of the mignionette, for I can 



JUVENILE LITERATURE 205 

remember when I first smelled it, and the pleasure it 
gave me, and above all, your singing " Dreminda," the 
Black Cow, which always made me cry. But when we 
meet, please God, we will talk over all this, meantime 
I shall make extracts, as you know I always do, of what 
I read ; for James has lent me the book, though it was 
his school prize, and very handsome, saying, rather 
pertly, " Why, you little fool, you won't understand a 
word of it." But I convinced him to the contrary at 
tea, to Granny's amazement, who said, " You might 
have found a better book to put into her hands on the 
Sabbath day." 

Now, dear Sir, good-night ; Molly is so teazing with 
her yawning, and saying, " After being up at six o'clock, 
one may, I suppose, go to bed before midnight." I 
forgot to tell you that good Mr. O' Flaherty has been 
here, and told Molly that he was very glad you were 
gone oif and out of the way of the Philistines, and that 
he would bring us Castle franks twice a week from his 
friend Mr. Irk, who was in the Treasury, that would 
hold a house ! So I shall have no conscience in v/riting 
to you on the score of postage. You are to direct your 
letters under cover to Mr. O'Flaherty to G. Irk, Esq., 
Castle, Dublin, 

Your dutiful daughter, 

Sydney. 



Sydney Owenson to Thomas Charles Morgan 

THE WHISKERS 

October 31, 181 1. 

I am not half such a little rascal as you suppose ; the 

best feelings only have detained me from you ; and 



2o6 LADY MORGAN 

feelings better than the best will bring me back to you. 
I must be more or less than woman to resist tenderness, 
goodness, excellence, like yours, and I am simply woman, 
aye, dear, " every inch a woman." I feel a little kind 
of tingling about the heart, at once more feeling myself 
nestled in yours ; do you remember ? Well, dear, if you 
don't I will soon revive your recollection — I said I would 
not write to you to-day, but I could not resist it, and I 
am now going off to a man of business, and about Lady 
Abercorn's books, in the midst of the snow, and pinched 
with cold. God bless you, love. 

S. O. 

Your song is charming ; you are a clever wretch, 
and I love you more for your talents than your virtues, 
you thing of the world. What put it into your stupid 
head that I would not return at Christmas ? Did I 
ever say so, blockhead ? 

Well, I have only the old story to tell, no more than 
yourself — 

And I loves you, and you loves me. 
And oh ! how happy we shal) be. 

Take care of the whiskers — mind they are not to 
grow thus — but thus — [Here follows in the letter a 
couple of droll portraits of Morgan, with the whiskers 
grown and trimmed in the two fashions then in favour]. 



Sydney Owenson to Thomas Charles Morgan 

IRISH LORE 

December 24, 1811. 

I told you yesterday, dearest, that you should have 
a long letter to day, and here comes onp as short as 



IRISH LORE 207 

myself. The reason is, that a good old Irishman has 
sent me 20,000 volumes of old Irish books to make 
extracts from, and to return them directly, and here I 
am in poor Dad's room just after binding up his poor 
blistered head, and I am just going to work pell-mell, 
looking like a little conjurer, with all my black-lettered 
books about me. I am extracting from Edmund 
Spenser, who loved Ireland tant soit peu ; dearest, your 
letters are delicious, 'tis such a sweet feeling to create 
happiness for those we love ; if we have but de quoi 
vivre in a nutshell house in London, / shall be satisfied, 
and you shall be made as happy as Irish lore, Irish 
talent, and Irish fun can make a grave, cold, shy English- 
man. Your song is divine. Here is Livy just come 
in and insists on saying so ; but first I must tell you 
that poor, dear papa continues very ill, and so low- 
spirited that it is heart-breaking to listen to him. 

Sydney. 

Lady Morgan to Lady Stanley 

GETTING STRAIGHT 
35, KiLDARE Street, Dublin, Monday, May 17 [18 13]. 
Vous voild aux ahois, ma chdre dame ! ! You see I am 
not to be distanced ; retreat as you will, I still pursue. 
When I am within a mile of you, you will not see me ; 
when I write you will not answer ; and still here I am 
at your feet, because I will not be rehiitee, nor (throw 
me off as you may) will I ever give you up until I find 
something that resembles you, something to fill up the 
place you have so long occupied ; the fact is, my dear 
Lady Stanley, it is pure selfishness that ties me to you. 
/ do not like women, I cannot get on with them ! And 



2o8 LADY MORGAN 

except the excessive tenderness which I have always 
felt for my sister be called friendship, you (and one or 
two more, par parenthese) are the only woman to whom 
I could ever Her myself for a week together. Se devancer 
de son sexe is as dangerous as De se devancer de son Sidcle. 
It was no effort, no willing of mine that has given me a 
little the start of the major part of them ; dear little 
souls ! who, as Ninon says, * * le trouvent plus commode 
d'etre jolie." The principle was there ; active and 
restless, the spur was given, and off I went, happy in the 
result that my comparative superiority obtained me 
one such friend as yourself — that is, as you were ; but I 
fear you now cut me dead. 

We have at last got into a home of our own ; we found 
an old, dirty, dismantled house, and we have turned 
our piggery into a decent sort of hut enough ; we have 
made it clean and comfortable, which is all our moderate 
circumstances will admit of, save one little bit of a room, 
which is a real bijou, and it is about four inches by three, 
and, therefore, one could afford to ornament it a little ; 
it is fitted up in the gothic, and I have collected into it 
the best part of a very good cabinet of natural history 
of Sir Charles, eight or nine hundred volumes of choice 
books, in French, English, Italian, and German ; some 
little miscellaneous curiosities, and a few scraps of old 
china, so that with muslin draperies, etc., etc., I have 
made no contemptible set out. / was thinking that 
maybe Susette could enrich my store in the old china 
way, if she has any refuse of that sort which you may 
have thrown her in with your cast-off wardrobe — a 
broken cup, a bottomless bowl, a spoutless teapot — 
in a word, anything old and shattered, that is china, 
and of no value to you, will be of use and ornament to 



THE NEW HOUSE 209 

me, and Captain Skinner has promised to bring it over 
for me. 

With respect to authorship, I fear it is over. I have 
been making chair-covers instead of periods ; hanging 
curtains instead of raising systems, and cheapening pots 
and pans instead of selling sentiment and philosophy. 
Meantime, my husband is, as usual, deep in study, and 
if his popularity here may be deemed a favourable 
omen, will, I trust, soon be deep in practice. Well, 
always dear friend ; any chance of a line in answer of 
my three pages of verbiage ? Just make the effort of 
taking up the pen, and if you only write " Glorvina, I 
am well, and love you still," I will be contented. 
Under all circumstances, 

Yours affectionately 

S. Morgan. 



Lady Morgan to her sister, Lady Clarke 

BRITISHERS ABROAD 

Calais, August 27, 181 8. 
Here we are, my dear love, after a tremendous 
expense at the hotel at Dover, where we slept last night, 
and embarked at twelve o'clock this morning, in a 
stormy sea. The captain remained behind to try and 
get more passengers, and the result was that we re- 
mained tossing in the bay near two hours, almost to the 
extinction of our existence. In my life I never suffered 
so much. As to Morgan, he was a dead man. The 
whole voyage we were equally bad ; and the ship could 
not be got into port — so we were flung, more dead than 
alive, into a wretched sail-boat, and how we got on 

14 



210 LADY MORGAN 

shore I do not know. It rained in torrents all the 
time ; but the moment I touched French ground, and 
breathed French air, I got well. We came to our old 
auberge, MM. Maurice's, and the first place we got to 
was the kitchen fire, for we were wet and cold ; — and 
really, in that kitchen I saw more beauty than at many 
of our London parties. Madame Maurice and her 
daughter are both handsome women. We were obliged 
to have bedrooms opposite the auberge. as it was quite 
full, but the house, Madame told us, belongs to " mama." 
She is herself about fifty, so you may guess what 
" mama " is : she is admirable — a powdered head, three 
feet high, and souflet gauze winker cap. Our chamber- 
maid is worth anything. She is not one of the kitchen 
beauties, par exemple ; but here she is, an ugly woman 
of seventy, in her chemise, with the simple addition of 
a red corset and a petticoat, several gold chains, and an 
immense cross of shiny stones on her neck, with long 
gold earrings, and with such a cap as I wore at a 
masquerade. With all this her name is Melanie ; and 
Melanie has beauty airs as well as beauty name. Whilst 
she was lighting our wood fire (for it is severely cold) 
I asked her some questions about Mr. Maurice. You 
may guess what a personage he is, for she said : A h, 
pour noire M. Maurice on ne parle que de lui — partout, 
Madame, on ne s'occupe que de notre M. Maurice. So 
much for Miss Melanie and her Mr. Grundy. We dined 
at the table d'hote. We had an Englishman and his 
wife and a Frenchman only, for our company. The 
Frenchman was delightful. We had a capital table, 
with everything good and in profusion ; but the English- 
man sat scowling, and called for all sorts of English 
sauces, said the fish was infamous and found fault with 



THE FRENCH CHAMBER^IAID 211 

everything, and said to the waiter — " What do you mean 
by your confounded sour mustard ? " The poor waiter 
to all his remarks only answered in English, " How is 

dat, sar ? " The Burgundy was " such d d stuff." 

And the last remark was, " Why, your confounded room 
has not been papered these twenty years," was too 
much for our good breeding ; and we and the French- 
man laughed outright. Is it not funny to see our 
countrymen leave their own country for the sole pleasure 
of being dissatisfied with everything ? 

We leave this early to-morrow, and shall be in Paris 
the next day, please God. Lafayette is to come up for 
us to take us to his chateau ; until, therefore, I leave 
the post town of La Grange, direct to the Hotel d'Orleans, 
where we shall go on our arrival in Paris. I feel myself 
so gay here already that I am sure my elements are all 
French. A thousand loves, and French and Irish kisses 
to the darlings. 

S. M. 



Lady Morgan to her sister, Lady Clarke 

THE BONAPARTE FAMILY 

Rome, February 4, 1820. 

Dear Love, — Your letters have given us great un- 
easiness about our house ; but I have no room for any 
feeling except joy and gratitude that you are well out 
of your troubles, and that the young knight promises 
to do honour to his people. 

Now for Rome, and our mode of existence. Im- 
mediately after breakfast we start on our tours to ruins, 
churches, galleries, collections, etc., etc., and return 
late ; dine, on an average, three times a week at English 



212 LADY MORGAN 

dinner-parties ; we are scarcely at home in the evenings, 
and never in the mornings. The Duchess of Devon- 
shire is unceasing in her attentions to me ; not only is 
her house open to us, but she calls and takes me out to 
show me what is best to be seen. As Cardinal Gonsalvi 
does not receive ladies, she arranged that I was to be in- 
troduced to him in the Pope's chapel ; as he was coming 
out in the procession of cardinals, he stepped aside, and 
we were presented. He insisted upon calling on me, 
and took our address. Cardinal Fesche (Bonaparte's 
uncle) is quite my beau ; he called on us the other 
day, and wanted me to drive out with him, but Morgan 
looked at his scarlet hat and stockings, and would not 
let me go. We have been to his palace, and he has 
shown us his fine collection (one of the finest in Rome). 
Lord William Russell, Mr. Adair, the Charlemonts, etc., 
are coming to us this evening. Madam Mere (Napoleon's 
mother) sent to say she would be glad to see me ; we 
were received quite in an imperial style. I never saw 
so fine an old lady — still quite handsome. She was 
dressed in rich crimson velvet, trimmed with sable, with 
a point-lace ruff and head-dress. The pictures of her 
sons hung round the room, all in royal robes, and her 
daughter and grandchildren, and at the head of them 
all, old Mr. Bonaparte ! Every time she mentioned 
Napoleon the tears came in her eyes. She took me into 
her bedroom to show me the miniatures of her three 
children. She is full of sense, feeling, and spirit, and 
not the least what I expected — vulgar. We dined at 
the Princess Borghese's — Louis Bonaparte, the ex-king 
of Holland's son, dined there — a fine boy ; Lord William 
Russell, and some Roman ladies in the evening. She 
invited us all to see her jewels ; we passed through 



CARDINAL FESCHE 213 

eight rooms en suite to get to her bedroom. The bed was 
white-and-gold, the quilt point-lace, and the sheets French 
cambric embroidered. The jewels were magnificent. 

Nothing can be kinder than the Charlemont family. 
We were at three soirees all in one night. With great 
difficulty I at last got at Miss Curran,^ for she leads the 
life of a hermit. She is full of talent and intellect, 
pleasant, interesting, and original ; and she paints 
like an artist. 

God bless you. 

S. M. 

Lady Morgan to her sister, Lady Clarke 

IMPRESSIONS OF ST. PETER'S 

Rome, Palazzo Giorgio, April 2, 1820. 
My dearest Love, — Here we are again, safe and sound, 
as I trust this will find you all. We were much disap- 
pointed at not finding a letter here on our return, and now 
all our hopes are fixed on Venice, for which we should 
have departed this day, but for the impossibility of 
getting horses ; the moment the Holy Week was over 
there was a general break-up, and this strange whirligig, 
travelling world, who were all mad to get here, are now 
all mad to get away. Before I place myself at Rome, 
however, I must take you back with me for a little to 
Naples. Just as I despatched my letter to you, with 
the account of my February summer, arrives the month 
of March with storms of winds, a fall of snow on the 
mountains, and all this in an immense barrack, called 

I Daughter of the Irish politician. She painted the best-known 
portrait of Percy Bysshe Shelley, now in the National Portrait 
Gallery. 



214 LADY MORGAN 

a palace, without chimneys, or doors that shut, or 
windows that close. In short, as to climate, take it 
all in all, I am as well satisfied now with my old, wet- 
blanket Irish climate as any other. I had nothing to 
complain of, however, at Naples but the climate — 
nothing could exceed the kindness and politeness of the 
Neapolitans to us both. Every Monday we were 
invited to a festino given by the Neapolitan nobility to 
the English, and our time passed, in point of society, 
most delightfully. There is less to be seen than at 
Rome ; but those few sights are more curious and more 
perfect than anything at Rome except the Coliseum. 
The buried town at Pompeii, for instance, is unique — 
a complete Roman town as it stood two thousand years 
ago, almost all the furniture in high preservation — but 
this is beyond the compass of a letter. We left pleasant, 
brilliant Naples with infinite regret, and our journey 
here was most curious. Notwithstanding we were five 
carriages strong, yet at each military post (and they were 
at every quarter of a mile) two soldiers leaped upon our 
carriage, one before and another behind, with their 
arms, and gave us up to the next guard, who gave us 
two more guards, and thus we performed our perilous 
journey like prisoners of state. You may guess the state 
of the country by this. At Rome, however, all danger 
from bandits ends ; and when I caught a view of the 
cupola of St. Peter's, rising amidst the solitudes of the 
Campagna, I offered up as sincere a thanksgiving as 
ever was preferred to his sanctity. We arrived in Rome 
in time for the first of the ceremonies of the Holy Week. 
All our English friends at Naples arrived at the same 
time ; but after the Holy Week at Rome, never talk of 
Westminster elections, Irish fairs, or English bear- 



IMPRESSIONS OF ITALY 215 

gardens ! I never saw the horrors of a crowd before, 
nor such a curious melange of the ludicrous and the 
fearful. We had a ticket sent us for all by Cardinal 
Fesche, and saw all ; but it was at the risk of our limbs 
and lives. Of all the ceremonies the benediction was 
the finest, and of all the sights, St. Peter's illuminated 
on Easter Sunday night, the most perfectly beautiful. 
We were from eight o'clock in the morning till two o'clock 
in the afternoon in the church : all the splendour of the 
earth is nothing to the procession of the Pope and 
Cardinals. Morgan was near being crushed to death, 
only he cried out to Lord Charlemont to give him some 
money (for he could not get to his pocket), which he 
threw to a soldier, who rescued him. I saw half the 
red bench of England tumbling down staircases, and 
pushed back by the guard. We have Queen Caroline 
here. At first this made a great fuss whether she was 
or was not to be visited by her subjects, when lo ! she 
refused to see any of them, and lead the most perfectly 
retired life ! We met her one day driving out in a state 
truly royal ; I never saw her so splendid. Young 
Austen followed in an open carriage ; he is an interesting- 
looking young man. She happened to arrive at an inn 
near Rome when Lord and Lady Leitrim were there ; 
she sent for them and invited them to tea. Lady 
Leitrim told me her manner was perfect, and altogether 
she was a most improved woman ; the Baron attended 
her at tea, but merely as a chamberlain, and was not 
introduced. Before you will receive this, if accounts 
be true. Her Majesty will be in England. I think you 
will not be sorry to hear that if we live and do well, our 
next letter will be dated from Paris. 

S. M. 



2i6 LADY MORGAN 

Lady Morgan to 

PAGANINI'S LOVE STORY 

Dublin, 1831. 

. . . Since our return we have been in perpetual 
agitation about the Reform Bill, but I picked one gay, 
light-hearted, agreeable evening out of the bustle — a 
dinner and soiree for Paganini. I asked him, not as a 
miraculous fiddle-player, but as a study. He came 
into the drawing-room in a great-coat, a clumsy walking- 
stick, and his hat in his hand (quite a Penruddock figure), 
and walking up to me, made a regular set speech in his 
Genoese Italian, which I am convinced was taught him 
by his secretaries ; it abounded in donnas, celehrittissimas , 
and all the superlatives of Italian gallantry. At dinner 
he seemed wonderfully occupied with the dishes in 
succession, and frequently said, " ho troppo magiato ! " 
at each dish, exclaiming, " hravissimo ! excellentissimo ! " 
The fact is, I copied a Florentine dinner as closely as I 
could, having had a Florentine cook all the time we were 
in Italy ; so we had a minestra al Vermicelli, maccaroni, 
in all forms, etc., etc. I asked him if he were not the 
happiest man in the world, every day acquiring so much 
fame and so much money. He sighed, and said he should 
be, but for one thing, " i ragazzi," the little blackguards 
that ran after him in the streets. In the evening I took 
him into the boudoir ; we had a tete-a-tete of an hour, 
in which he told me his whole story ; but in such an 
odd, simple, Itahan, gossiping manner, half by signs, 
looks, and inflections of the voice, that though I can 
take him off to the life verbally, I can give no idea of 
him on paper ; still here is the outline. His father and 
mother in humble life in Genoa fond of music — no 



IL CONCERTO D'AMORE 217 

more. At four years old he played the guitar, and, 
untaught, attended all the churches to sing, and at 
seven years of age composed something like a cantata ; 
then he took up the violin, and made such progress 
that his father travelled about with him from one 
Italian town to another, till he attracted the attention 
and attained the patronage of Elise Bonaparte, then 
Grand Duchess of Tuscany. He was taken into her 
family, and played constantly at her brilliant little court ; 
there he fell in love with one of her dames d'honneur, 
who turned his head, he said, and he became pazzo 
per amove, and found his violin expressed his passion 

better than he could. Mile. B became his guide 

and inspiration ; but they had a terrible fracas, they 
fought, fell out, and separated. One day, in his despair, 
he was confiding his misery to his beloved violin, and 
made it repeat the quarrel just as it ha.ppened ; he 
almost made it articulate the very words, and in the 

midst of this singular colloquy Mile, de B rushed 

into the room and threw her arms around his neck, and 
said, " Paganini, your genius has conquered." Their 
reconciliation followed, and she begged he would note 
dov/n those inspirations of love ; he did so, and called 
it, // Concerto d' Amove. Having left it by accident on 
the piano of the Grand Duchess, she saw, and commanded 
him to play it ; he did so, and the dialogue of the two 
strings had a wonderful success. He married after- 
wards a chorus-singer at Trieste, and she was the mother 
of his little Paganini, whom he doated on. The mother, 
he said, abandoned them both, and that now he was no 
longer susceptible of the charms of the " Belle Donne." 
His violin was his mistress. While telling me all this, 
he rolled his eyes in a most extraordinary way, and 



2i8 LADY MORGAN 

assumed a look that it is impossible to define — really 
and truly something demoniacal. Still, he seems to me 
to be a stupefied and almost idiotic creature. 



AMELIA OPIE (1769 1853) 

DAUGHTER of Dr. Aldcrson of Norwich. She married John 
Opie, R.A., the great portrait-painter, in 1798. In 1801 her 
first novel, " Father and Daughter," was published and shortly 
afterward her poems. Her house was the rendezvous of all 
the most famous authors and artists of the day. She wrote 
many stories, and after her husband's death published his 
lectures. In 1825 Mrs. Opie became a Quakeress, withdrew 
from society, and abandoned fiction, but she continued to 
write for the magazines. 

To Mrs. Taylor 

JOHN OPIE's proposal 

Tuesday, 1797. 

Why have I not written to you ? It is a question I 
cannot answer, you must answer it yourself, but attribute 
m^'- silence not to any diminution of affection for you. . . 

Believe me, I still hear the kind fears you expressed 
for me when we parted, and still see the flattering tears 
that you shed when you bade me adieu. Indeed, I 
shall never forget them. I had resolved to write to you 
as soon as ever I had seen Richard, but it was a resolu- 
tion made to be broken, like many others in this busy 
scene. Had I written to you as soon as I left, of all 
those whom I have heard talk of and praise you as you 
deserve, I should have ruined you in postage. Poor 

Mr. C is desperately in love with you, by his ow^n 

confession, and his wife admires his taste. Mr. Godwin 
was much gratified by your letter, and he avowed that 




AMELIA OPIE 



p. 2I8] 



From a photograph by Emery Walker, 
after the painting by John Opie, R.A. 



THE GODWINS 219 

it made him love you better than he did before, and 
Mrs. Godwin was not surprised at it ; by the bye, he 
never told me whether you congratulated him on his 
marriage ^ or not ; but now I remember, it was written 
before that wonder-creating event was known. Heigho ! 
what charming things would sublime theories be, if one 
could make one's practice keep up with them ; but I 
am convinced it is impossible, and am resolved to make 
the best of every-day nature. 

I shall have much to tell you in a tete-d-Ute of the 
Godwins, etc. — so much that a letter could not contain 
or do it justice ; but this \vill be entre nous. I love to 
make observations on extraordinary characters ; but 
not to mention those observations if they be not favour- 
able. " Well ! a whole page, and not a word yet of the 
state of her heart ; the subject most interesting to me," 
methinks I hear your exclaim ; patience, friend, it will 
come soon, but not go away soon, were I to analyse it, 
and give it you in detail. Suffice, that it is in the most 
comical state possible, but I am not unhappy ; on the 
contrary, I enjoy everything ; and if my head be not 
turned by the large draughts which my vanity is daily 
quaffing, I shall return to Norwich much happier than 
I left it. Mr. Opie has (but mum) been my declared 
lover, almost ever since I came. I was ingenuous with 
him upon principle, and I told him my situation, and 
the state of my heart. He said he should still persist, 
and would risk all consequences to his own peace, and 
so he did and does ; and I have not resolution to forbid 
his visits. Is not this abominable ? Nay, more, were 
I not certain my father would disapprove such, or 
indeed any connection for me, there are moments when, 
1 To Mary Wollstonecraft. 



220 AMELIA OPIE 

ambitious of being a wife and mother, and of securing 
for myself a companion for life, capable of entering into 
all my pursuits and of amusing me by his — I could 
almost resolve to break off all fetters, and relinquish, 
too, the wide, and often aristocratic circle in which I 
now move, and become the wife of a man whose genius 
has raised him from obscurity into fame and compara- 
tive affluence ; but indeed my mind is on the pinnacle 
of its health when I thus feel ; and on a pinnacle one can't 
remain long ! But I had forgotten to tell you the attrac- 
tion Mr. O held out, that staggered me beyond any- 
thing else ; it was, that if I was averse to leaving my 
father he would joyfully consent to his living with us. 
What a temptation to me, who am every moment 
sensible that the claims of my father will always be, 
with me, superior to any claims that a lover can hold 
out ! Often do I rationally and soberly state to Opie 
the reasons that might urge me to marry him, in time, 
and the reasons why I never would be happy with him 
nor he with me ; but it always ends in his persisting in 
his suit, and protesting his willingness to wait for my 
decision, even while I am seriously rejecting him, and 
telling him I have decided. . . . Mr. Holcroft, too, has 
had a mind to me, but he has no chance. May I trouble 
you to tell my father that while I was out yesterday 
Hamilton called, and left a note, simply saying, " Rich- 
ardson says he means to call on you ; I have seen him this 
morning." Before I seal this letter I hope to receive my 
farce from him ; I will put my letter by till the boy 

returns from R . I have been capering about the 

room for joy at having gotten my farce back ! Now 
idleness adieu, when Dicky and I have held sweet con- 
verse together I , . , 



JOHN OPIE'S DEVOTION 221 

Amelia Opie to Mrs. Taylor 

OPIE AND HIS STUDIO 

January 27, 1800. • 
My dear Friend, — . . . John, I suppose, informed 
you he called on us ; he promised to come and dine 
with us, but has not been since ; and as I have been 
tied by the foot ever since the day after Christmas-day, 
from having worn a tight-bound shoe, which made a 
hole in my heel. I do not regret his false-heartedness, 
as when he does come we are to go church and meeting 
hunting. I will give you a specimen of your two sons. 
" John," said I, " will you take a letter from me to your 
mother ? " " Certainly," replied John, " for then I 
shall be sure of being welcome." " Fye," returned I, 
" you know, Mr. Courtier, you want nothing to add to 
the heartiness of the welcome you will receive at home." 
"No, indeed," said Richard; "and if Mrs. Opie sends 
her letter by you, it will be one way of maldng it less 
valued and attended to than it would otherwise be." 
To the truth of this speech I subscribed, and wrote not. I 
should like to know whether you are most pleased with 
John's polish or Richard's sincerity. . . . Apropos, I 
was very sorry to hear of your husband's severe return of 
gout, but as he had a long respite before, I hope he will 
again. Severe illness has (I often think) on the frame the 
same effect that a severe storm has on the atmosphere. 
I myself am much better in every respect since my late 
indisposition than I was before ; and the mind is never 
perhaps so serene and tranquil as when one is recovering 
from sickness. I enjoyed my confinement, as I was 
not like your good man, in pain. My husband was so 
kind as to sit with me every evening, and even to intro- 



222 AMELIA OPIE 

duce his company to my bedside. No less than three 
beaux had the honour of a sitting in my chamber. Quite 
Parisian, you see, but I dare not own this to some women. 
I have led a most happy and delightful life since my 
return, and in the whole two months have not been 
out more than four times ; so spouse and I had no 
squabbles about visiting, and that is the only thing we 
ever quarrel about. If I would stay at home for ever, 
I believe he would be merry from morning to night ; and 
be a lover more than a husband ! He had a mind to 
accompany me to an assembly in Nottingham Place, but 
Mrs. Sharpe (a most amiable woman) frightened him by 
declaring he should dance with her if he did. 

What the friendships of dissipated women are, Mrs. 
R. H.'s going to a ball, while poor H. T. was dying, 
sufficiently proves. I remember with satisfaction that 
I saw her, and shook hands with her, at the November 
ball. Indeed she had a heart ; and I can't help recol- 
lecting that when I had the scarlet fever she called on 
me every day, regardless of danger, and sat at the 
foot of my bed. Besides, she was the friend of twenty 
years, and companion of my childhood, and I feel the 
older I grow the more tenderly I cling to the scenes, and 
recollections, and companions, of my early hours. When 
I now look at Mr. Bruckner's black cap, my memory gets 
astride on the tassel of it, and off she gallops at a very 
pleasant rate ; wooden desks, green bags, blotted books, 
inked hands, faces, and gowns, rise in array before me. 
I see Mrs. Beecroft (Miss Dixon, I should say) with her 
plump, good-humoured face, laughing till she loses her 
eyes, and shakes the whole form ; but I must own, the 
most welcome objects that the hoofs of memory's hobby- 
horse kick up, are the great B.'s, or bons on my exercises ! 



OPIE'S STUDIO 223 

I do not choose to remember how often I was marked 
for being idle. ... So you have had risks. I am glad 
they are over. Mrs. Adair called on me this morning, 
and she tells me that Charles Harvey was terribly alarmed 
after he had committed Col. Montgomery. A fine idea 
this gives one of the state of a town, where a man is 
alarmed at having done his duty ! 

I am very much afraid my spouse will not live long ; 
he has gotten a fit of tidyness on him ; and yesterday 
evening and this evening he has employed himself in 
putting his painting-room to rights. This confirms what 
I said to him the other day ; that almost every man was 
beau and sloven, at some time of his life. Charles Fox 
once wore pink heels ; now he has an unpowdered crop. 
And I expect that as my husband has been a sloven 
hitherto, he will be a heau in future ; for he is so pleased 
with his handy work, and capers about, and says, 
" Look there ! how neat ! and how prettily I have 
disposed the things ! Did you ever see the like ? " 
Certainly I never did where he was before. Oh ! he 
will certainly be a heau in time. Past ten o'clock ! I 
must now say farewell ; but let me own that I missed 
you terribly when I was ill. I have no female friend 
and neighbour ; and men are not the thing on such 
occasions. Besides, you on all occasions would be the 
female neighbour I should choose. Love to your spouse. 
Write soon, and God bless you. 

Amelia Opie to {?) Dr. Alder son 

FIRST CONSUL BUONAPARTE 

1802. 

We had now been several days in Paris, and yet we 
had not seen the First Consul ! I own that my impa- 



224 AMELIA OPIE 

tience to see him had been abated, by the growing 
conviction which I felt of the possible hollowness of 
the idol so long exalted. 

But still we were desirous of beholding him ; and 
I was glad when we received a letter from our obliging 
acquaintance, Count de Lastergrie, informing us that 
Buonaparte would review the troops on such a day on 
the Place du Carousel, and that he had procured a window 
for us, whence we should be able to see it to advantage. 
But, on account of my short-sightedness, I was still 
more glad when our friend Le Masquerier (a very 
successful young English painter) informed us that 
he had the promise of a window for my husband and 
myself in an apartment on the ground-floor of the 
Tuileries, whence we should be able to have a near 
view of Buonaparte : — our friends, therefore, profited 
by M. de Lastergrie's kindness, and we went to the 
palace. As the time of seeing the First Consul drew 
nigh, I was pleased to feel all my original impressions 
in his favour return. This might be a weakness in 
me, but it was, I hope, excusable ; and our sense 
of his greatness and importance was, as my husband 
observed, heightened by seeing the great man of our 
own country — he who was there a sight himself to 
many — cross the Place du Carousel, with his wife on 
his arm, going, as we believed, to gaze, like us, on at 
least a more fortunate man than himself — for at 
that time Charles James Fox had not seen Napoleon 
Buonaparte. 

The door which opened into the hall of the palace was 
shut, but, after some persuasion, I prevailed on the 
attendant to open it ; and he said he would keep it open 
till the First Consul had mounted his horse, if I would 



BUONAPARTE 225 

engage that we would all of us stand upon the threshold, 
and not once venture beyond it. 

With these conditions we promised to comply ; and, 
full of eager expectation, I stationed myself where I 
could command the white marble stairs of the palace — 
those steps once stained with the blood of the faithful 
Swiss Guards, and on which I now expected to behold 
the " Pacificator," as he was called by the people and 
his friends — the hero of Lodi. Just before the review was 
expected to begin, we saw several officers in gorgeous 
uniforms ascend the stairs, one of whom, whose helmet 
seemed entirely of gold, was, as I was told, Eugene de 
Beauharnais. A few minutes afterwards there was a 
rush of officers down the stairs, and amongst them I 
saw a short pale man, with his hat in his hand, who, as I 
thought, resembled Lord Erskine, in profile, but, though 
my friend said in a whisper, " C'esi lui," I did not com- 
prehend that I beheld Buonaparte, till I saw him stand 
alone at the gate. In another moment he was on his 
horse, and rode slowly past the window ; while I, with 
every nerve trembling with strong emotion, gazed on 
him intently ; endeavouring to commit each expressive, 
sharply chiselled feature to memory ; contrasting also, 
with admiring observation, his small simple hat, adorned 
with nothing but a little tri-coloured cockade, and his 
blue coat, guiltless of gold embroidery, with the splendid 
head adornings and dresses of the officers who followed 
him. 

A second time he slowly passed the window ; then, 
setting spurs to his horse, he rode amongst the ranks, 
where some faint huzzas greeted him from the crowd 
on the opposite side of the Place du Carousel. At 
length he took his station before the palace, and as we 

15 



226 AMELIA OPIE 

looked at him out of the window, we had a very perfect 
view of him for nearly three quarters of an hour. I 
thought, but perhaps it was fancy, that the countenance 
of Buonaparte was lighted up with peculiar pleasure as 
the corps d'elite, wearing some mark of distinction, 
defiled before him, bringing up the rear — that fine, 
gallant corps, which, as we are told, he had so often 
led on to victory ; but this might be my fancy. Once 
we saw him speak, as he took off his hat to remove the 
hair from his heated forehead, and this gave us an 
opportunity of seeing his front face, and his features 
in action. Soon after, we saw him give a sword of 
honour to one of the soldiers ; and he received a petition 
which an old woman presented to him ; but he gave it 
unread to some one near him. At length the review 
ended ; too soon for me. The Consul sprang from his 
horse — we threw open our door again, and, as he slowly 
reascended the stairs, we saw him very near us, and 
in full face again, while his bright, restless, expressive, 
and, as we fancied, dark blue eyes, beaming from under 
long black eyelashes, glowed over us with a scrutinising 
but complacent look ; and thus ended, and was com- 
pleted, the pleasure of the spectacle. 

I could not speak ; I had worked myself up to all 
my former enthusiasm for Buonaparte ; and my frame 
still shook with the excitement 1 had undergone. The 
next day sobered me again, however, but not much, as 
will be soon seen. 

The day after the review, our accomplished country- 
woman Maria Cosway, took the President of the Royal 
Academy, Benjamin West, and ourselves, on a round 
of picture-seeing ; and at length we proceeded to the 
residence of a gentleman, who was, I concluded, only 



MADAME BUONAPARTE MERE 227 

a picture dealer, or one of the many nouveaux riches who 
had fine collections ; because, whenever she spoke of 
him, Maria Cosway called him nothing but " Fesch." 
We stopped at the door of a very splendid Chaussee 
d'Antin, and were met at the top of a magnificent 
flight of stairs by a gentleman in the garb of an 
ecclesiastic. His hair was powdered, and he wore 
it in a full round curl behind, after the fashion of an 
abbe ; his coat was black, but his stockings were of 
bright purple ; his shoe- and knee-buckles were of gold ; 
round his neck he wore a glossy white silk handkerchief, 
from under which peeped forth a costly gold crucifix. 
His countenance was pleasing, his complexion un- 
commonly blooming, his manners courteous, and his 
age (as I afterwards learned) was thirty-nine. This 
gentleman was the " Fesch " we came to visit; but I 
soon discovered that though he lived in the house, it was 
not his own ; for Maria Cosway was summoned into an 
adjoining room, where I overheard her conversing with 
a female ; and when she returned she told us that 
Madame Buonaparte Mere (as she was called to dis- 
tinguish her from her daughter-in-law), the mistress 
of the hotel, was very sorry that she could not see us, 
but that she was so unwell, she was obliged to keep 
her bed, and could not receive strangers. So, then ! 
we were in the house of Letitia Buonaparte, and the 
mother of Napoleon ! and in the next room to her, but 
could not see her ! How unfortunate ! However, I was 
sure I had heard her voice. I now supposed that 
" Fesch " was her spiritual director, and believed his 
well studied dress, si bien soignee, was a necessary dis- 
tinction, as he belonged to the mother of the First 
Consul. 



228 AMELIA OPIE 

He seemed a merry, as well as a courteous man ; 
and once he took Maria Cosway aside, and showed her 
a letter that he had only just received, which, to judge 
from the hearty laugh of " Fesch," and the answering 
smiles of the lady, gave them excessive pleasure. By 
and by, however, I heard and observed many things 
which made me think that " Fesch " was more than I 
apprehended him to be. I therefore watched for an 
opportunity to ask the President who this obliging 
person was — ■ — " What ! " cried he, " do you not know 
that he is the Archbishop of Lyons, the uncle of Buona- 
parte ? I was astonished ! What ! the person so 
familiarly spoken of as " Fesch," could be indeed 
du sang of the Buonapartes, and the First Consul's 
uncle ! How my respect for him increased when I heard 
this ! How interesting became his every look and 
word ; and how grateful I felt for his obliging attenti5n 
to us ! 

While we were looking at the pictures, his niece, the 
wife of Murat, drove to the door ; and I saw the top of her 
cap as she ahghted, but no more, as she went immediately 
to her mother's bedside. 

After devoting to us at least two hours, the Arch- 
bishop conducted us down the noble staircase, to the 
beautiful hall of entrance, and courteously dismissed 
us. My companions instantly went away, but I lingered 
behind ; for I had caught a view of a colossal bust of 
Buonaparte in a helmet, which stood on a table, and I 
remained gazing on it, forgetful of all but itself. Yes ! 
there were those finely cut features, that coupe de 
menton a I'Apollon ! and, though I thought the likeness 
a flattered one, I contemplated it with great pleasure, 
and was passing my hand admiringly over the salient 



THE FIRST CONSUL'S BUST 229 

chin, when I heard a sort of suppressed laugh, and, 
turning round, saw the Archbishop observing me, and 
instantly, covered with confusion, I ran out of the house. 
I found Maria Cosway explaining what the letter was 
which had given " Fesch " and her such evident satis- 
faction. It was nothing less than a letter from Rome, 
informing him that he would probably be put in nomina- 
tion for the next cardinal's hat. 

How soon he was nominated I cannot remember, but 
it is now many years since the blooming ecclesiastic of 
1802 exchanged his purple for scarlet stockings, his 
mitre for a red hat, and his title of Archbishop of Lyons 
for that of Cardinal Fesch. 



LUCY AIKIN (1781-1864) 

DAUGHTER of Johii Alkin, M.D. Miss Aikin was the author 
of several books, one of which, " Memoirs of the Courts of 
Queen EUzabeth, James I, and of Charles I," was warmly 
praised by Macaulay. She also wrote a " Life of Addison," 
and a memoir of her aunt, Mrs. Barbauld, herself a well- 
known author. 



To Mrs. Taylor 

women's rights 
Stoke Newington, January 27, 1803. 
... I am full of plans and projects for the ensuing 
spring, when it arrives ; sometimes I dream of another 
visit to the Welsh mountains — then my fancy rambles 
to the Highlands of Scotland ; but one of the most 
agreeable of my anticipations, and that which is most 
likely to be realised, is another journey to dear old 



230 LUCY AIKIN 

Norwich ; which I need not assure you that I shall 
enjoy as much as the last ; and more I cannot say. Yes, 
my dear Mrs. Taylor, the longer I live the more am I 
convinced that connections formed in early childhood 
are the strongest, the most durable, and the most 
delightful of all. The image of the friend of infancy is 
associated with a thousand endearing recollections of 
those days of careless, but unclouded happiness, that 
pass so swiftly, never to return. The friend of riper 
youth is ever connected in our memory with some of 
those cares, those passions, those severe pains and lively 
pleasures that give to this period a more exquisite flavour 
of bitter and sweet than to the preceding, or perhaps 
any subsequent portion of life. When I feel my mind 
agitated by the too vivid ideas of scenes that have 
passed more recently, I think of Norfolk, and the careless 
days spent among my early friends, and all is calm 
again. Of what other place can I think with unmingled 
pleasure, with perfect satisfaction ? But what has 
enticed my pen into this long strain of sentimental 
reflection ? I fear you will not much thank me for 
anything so sombre. . . . 

There is a singular work lately published, of which 
I should much like to hear your opinion, Mary Hayes's 
"Female Biography." She is a great disciple of Mrs. 
Godwin, you know, and a zealous stickler for the equal 
rights and equal talents of our sex with the other ; but, 
alas, though I would not so much as whisper this to 
the pretended lords of the creation — • 

Her arguments directly tend 
Against the cause she would defend. 

At the same time that she attempts to make us despise 



WOMEN'S RIGHTS 231 

the frivolous rivalry of beauty and fashion, she holds 
forth such tremendous examples of the excesses of more 
energetic characters, that one is much inclined to 
imitate those quiet, good folks who bless God they are no 
geniuses. However, a general biography is something 
like a great London rout : everybody is there, good, bad, 
and indifferent, veritable and not veritable, so that a 
squeamish lady scarcely knows whom she may venture 
to speak to. Alas, alas ! though Miss Hayes has wisely 
addressed herself to the ladies alone, I am afraid the 
gentlemen will get a peep at her book and repeat with 
tenfold energy that women have no business with any- 
thing but nursing children and mending stockings. I 
do not think her book is written quite in an edifying 
manner either — the morals are too French for my 
taste. 

But what are we to think of Madame de Stael's new 
novel, ^ that all Paris, all Geneva, and all London is 
reading ? I hear Rousseau is revived in her, with all his 
" virtue in words and vice in actions," and all his 
dangerous eloquence. I have not read the book yet, but 
we voted it into a lady's book society here, and had 
afterwards some doubts whether it ought to be circu- 
lated. My mother wickedly proposed that all works- 
written by ladies should be carefully examined by a com- 
mittee before they are admitted into the society. And 
now that I have mentioned our society, which is a great 
hobby-horse with my aunt Barbauld and me, I must beg 
your congratulations on our spirit in setting up an 
institution into which not a single man is admitted, 
even to keep the accounts. I must indeed whisper in 
your ear that it is no very easy matter to get the ladies 
1 Apparently " Delphine," 1802. 



232 LUCY AIKIN 

to suspend their dissertations on new plays and new- 
fashions to discuss the merits of books, and that some- 
times it is rather difficult for the president, treasurer, 
and secretary, calling all at once to order, to obtain a 
hearing. But our meetings are not the less amusing for 
this. . . . 

Our fireside circle form in cordial remembrance with 
Your very affectionate 

L. AlKIN. 



Lucy Aiken to Mrs. Aiken 

TRAFALGAR 

Stoke Newington, November 1805. 
We do grumble a little, my dear mother, I assure 
you, at being so long without you ; but knowing how 
very much you are wanted where you are, we think it 
would be wrong to press your return sooner than the 
day you mention, against which time I will take care to 
have all preparations made. Well ! what do you all 
say to this glorious, dear-bought victory ? Twenty 
ships for a hero ! At this rate I think our enemies would 
be beggared first. But never was there a more affecting 
mixture of feelings. Even the hard-hearted under- 
writers assembled at Lloyds to hear the news could not 
stand it : when the death of Nelson was proclaimed, they 
one and all burst into tears. It is thought that the 
Londoners will put on mourning without any public 
orders. The illumination of the public offices last night 
was splendid, but many private streets were not lighted 
up at all, so much did sorrow prevail over triumph. 
The windows, it is said, were broken, and some of the mob 



THE DEATH OF NELSON 233 

cried out, " What ! light up because Nelson is killed ? " 
Nobody can, or ought to pity him, however, for what 
hero ever died a death more glorious ? They say that 
he saw fifteen ships strike before he fell. 



Lucy Aiken to Mrs. Taylor 

nelson's funeral 

»Stoke Newington, July 1806. 
... I have of late been quite stout, and, resolving 
to enjoy the full privileges of a person in health, I went, 
on New Year's day, to visit my friend Mrs. Carr, whom 
I accompanied to some London parties. The most 
piquant of these was a dinner at Hoppner's, where were, 
besides Hoppner himself, who has more wit than almost 
any man, "Memory" Rogers, and " Anacreon " Moore, 
otherwise " Little," who is an Irishman, and told us some 
Irish stories with infinite humour. In the afternoon 
came the Opies ; presently Mrs. Opie and Moore sat 
down to the instrument. Mrs. Opie was not in voice, 
but Anacreon ! Upon my word, he gave me new ideas 
of the power of harmony. He sung us some of his own 
sweet little songs, set to his own music, and rendered 
doubly touching by a voice the most sweet, and utter- 
ance the most articulate, and expression the most deep 
and varied, that I ever witnessed. No wonder this little 
man is a pet with duchesses ! What can be better fitted 
for a plaything of the great than a ruddy, joyous, laughing 
young Irishman, poor but not humble, a wit, poet, and 
musician, who is willing to devote his charming talents 
to their entertainment for the sake of being admitted to 
their tables, and honoured with their familiarity ? 



234 LUCY AIKIN 

As I was determined to " exert my energies," I readily 
accompanied my friends on board Mr. W. Carr's ship, 
whence we saw Nelson's body carried in procession up 
the river. The ships with their lowered flags, the dark 
boats of the river fencibles, the magnificent barges of 
his Majesty, and the City companies, and, above all, the 
mournful notes of distant music, and the deep sound of 
the single minute-gun, the smoke of which floated 
heavily along the surface of the river, — conspired to form 
a solemn, sober, and appropriate pomp, which I found 
awfully affecting. It did but increase my eagerness 
to witness the closing scene of this great pageant exhibited 
the next day at St. Paul's. Richard, who was our 
active and attentive squire, will probably have given 
you an account of our adventures on this occasion, and 
the order of procession you would see in the papers ; 
but perhaps you might not particularly attend to a 
circumstance which struck me most forcibly — the 
union of all ranks, from the heir-apparent to the common 
sailor, in doing honour to the departed hero. In fact, 
the royal band of brothers, with their stately figures, 
splendid uniforms, and sober and majestic deportment, 
roused, even in me, a transient emotion of loyalty ; but 
when the noble Highlanders and other regiments marched 
in who vanquished Buonaparte's Invincibles in Egypt, 
and, reversing their arms, stood hiding their faces with 
every mark of heartfelt sorrow, and especially when the 
victorious captains of Trafalgar showed their weather- 
beaten and undaunted fronts, following the bier in silent, 
mournful state, and when, at length, the gallant tars 
appeared bearing in their hands the tattered and blood- 
stained colours of the Victory — and I saw one of the poor 
fellows wiping his eyes by stealth on the end of the flag 



NELSON'S FUNERAL 235 

he was holding up — I cannot express to you all the 
proud, heroic, patriotic feelings that took possession of 
my heart, and made tears a privilege and luxury. No, 
on that day an Englishman could not despair of his 
country ! And now, after this taste of the gaieties and 
glories of the great city, I am returned to my snug little 
home, which is at present, however, less snug than 
usual. The Estlins of Bristol are on a visit to the 
Barbaulds, and we meet almost daily. . . . Miss Edge- 
worth's " Leonora " is full of wit, observation, and 
good sense : if it falls in your way it will entertain you 
much. I will write to Sally 1 at my first leisure interval ; 
but when that will arrive, I cannot guess. Melancholy 
indeed is the face of public affairs ; sometimes it infects 
me with gloom ; but so much more to us is our own 
fireside than all the world besides, that whilst we see 
happy faces there, we are half -inclined to say, " Let 
the world wag ! " When I wish to cloak indifference 
in philosophy, I think how good comes out of evil, and 
evil out of good, and on the whole how impossible it is 
to tell which is which. Pray remember me most kindly 
to the little circle respecting whom I can never be in- 
different, including therein Mrs. Enfield, from whom 
my mother has just had a very affectionate letter, and 
Eliza. We are all quite well here ; my Aunt Barbauld 
hears as quick as ever. Richard tells me that we are to 
see his father soon, at which I rejoice not a little, for 
after all, what pen can convey a tenth part of what 
one, that is /, wish to say to my friends ? For instance, 
I have now written almost a pamphlet, and yet I feel 
as if I had but just got into chat with you. I have 
scarce left room to say, my best of friends. Adieu. 
1 Miss Sarah Taylor, afterwards Mis. John Austin. 



236 LUCY AIKIN 

Lucy Aikin to Edmund Aiken 

DINING WITH SCOTT 

Stoke Newington, May 9, 1815. 

Dear Edmund, — I hope you will allow that every- 
body loves ten times better to receive what you call 
a gossiping letter than to write one — judge, then, by 
the size of paper I have taken to fill, how welcome are 
your epistles to me ! . . . 

Well ! the beginning of last week I was, as I told 
you, in town. An evening party on Monday at the 

N 's, rather too grave and Presbyterian ; but to make 

amends we had an alderman, a person excellent in his 
way, thinner indeed than alderman beseems (but his 
wife atones for that), and he had a red face, hair 
powdered snow-white, and one of those long, foolish 
noses that look as if they thrust themselves into every- 
thing. Then, ye gods ! he is musical ; summoned Miss 

N to the instrument by touching a few call-notes, 

and would fain have sung with her, but wicked N 

had left her duets behind, and would not patronise his 
proposal of taking two-thirds of a glee for three voices, 
so, to my unspeakable mortification, he had no oppor- 
tunity of exhibiting. . . . Have I got thus far in my 
letter and said nothing of last Friday ! It is a great 
proof of my methodical and chronological habits of 
writing that I did not jump to this period of my history 
in the first paragraph. Know, that on Thursday last 
arrived an invitation from the Carrs to my father and 
my aunt to dine with them the next day, to meet Walter 
Scott — apologies at the same time that their table would 
not admit us all. Well ! nothing could persuade my 
father to go, so my aunt said she would take me instead, 



THE DINNER PARTY 237 

and I had not the grace to say no. A charming day we 
had. I did not indeed see much of the great Hon, for 
we were fourteen at dinner, of whom about half were 
constantly talking, and neither at table nor after was I 
very near him ; but he was delighted to see my aunt, 
and paid her great attention, which I was very glad of. 
He told her that the "Tramp, tramp," "Splash, 
splash," of Taylor's " Lenora," which she had carried 
into Scotland to Dugald Stewart many years ago, was 
what made him a poet. I heard him tell a story or two 
with a dry kind of humour, for which he is distinguished ; 
and though he speaks very broad Scotch, he is a heavy- 
looking man, and has little the air of a gentleman. I was 
much pleased with him — he is lively, spirited, and quite 
above all affectation. He had with him his daughter, a 
girl of fifteen, the most naive child of nature I ever saw ; 
her little Scotch phrases charmed us all, and her Scotch 
songs still more. Her father is a happy minstrel to have 
such a lassie to sing old ballads to him, which she often 
does by the hour together, for he is not satisfied with a 
verse or two, but chooses to have fit the first, second, 
and third. He made her sing us a ditty about a Border 
reiver who was to be hanged for stealing the bishop's 
mare, and who dies with the injunction to his comrades : 

If e'er ye find the bishop's cloak, 
Ye'U mak' it shorter by the hood. 

She also sung us a lullaby in Gaelic — -very striking 
novelties both, in a polished London party. Nobody 
could help calling this charming girl pretty, though all 
allowed her features were not good, and we thought 
her not unlike her father's own sweet Ellen. I had the 
good fortune to be placed at dinner between Mr. Wiiishaw 



238 LUCY AIKIN 

and Sotheby, better known by Wieland's " Oberon " than 
by his own "Saul." He is a lively, pleasant, elderly 
man ; his manners of the old school of gallantry, which we 
women must ever like. A lady next him asked him if he 
did not think we could see by Mr. Scott's countenance, if 
" Waverley " were mentioned, whether he was the author ? 

"I don't know," said Mr. , "we will try." So he 

called out from the bottom of the table to the top, " Mr. 
Scott, I have heard there is a new novel coming out by 
the author of ' Waverley ' ; have you heard of it ? " "I 
have," said the minstrel, "and I believe it." He 
answered very steadily, and everybody cried out directly, 
" O, I am glad of it ! " " Yes," said Mr. Whishaw, " I 
am a great admirer of these novels " ; and we began to 
discuss which was the best of the two ; but Scott kept 
out of this debate, and had not the assurance to say any 
handsome things of the works, though lie is not the 
author — O no ! for he denies them.^ 

Mr. Whishaw was lamenting that his friend Dumont 
is returning to Geneva ; " but he has the maladie du 
pays, like all Swiss. Talleyrand says that to a Genevois, 
Geneva is la cinquieme partie du monde, and Dumont 
has a prospect of being Secretary of State, with a salary 
of /50 per annum. And they do not give cabinet dinners 
there, but gouters." " Of what ? " " Peach tart, I 
suppose." He asked me what was become of that 
Roscoe who was under Smyth at Cambridge some 
years ago. — A pretty, romantic young man, and the 
gods had made him poetical. There were verses to a 

1 Of Scott's novels " Waverley," 1S14, and " Guy Mannering," 
1815, only had been published at this date : he had not yet de- 
clared himself as their author ; his reputation, therefore, rested 
on his work as a poet and essayist. 



" WAVERLEY " 239 

lily by moonlight ! " O," said I, " he is a steady banker 
now." " A steady banker ? " " Yes ; there is some- 
thing of the old character left, certainly, but he is more 
a man of the world than he was then." " O, of course ; 
a banker is of the earth, earthly." I greatly doubt whether 
the lion of the day uttered any roarings equal to these. 
But the latter part of the evening, our laughing philo- 
sopher fell in love with the little Scotch lassie, and only 
" roared like any sucking dove." . . . 

I positively must chatter no longer, I am so busy 
to-day. 

Your affectionate 

L. AlKIN. 

Lucy Aikin to Edmund Aikin 

BATHING AT BRIGHTON 

Stoke Newington, July 1815. 

I have been longing to hear from you, my dear 
Edmund, for a great while, but guessed how it was that 
you deferred writing. At last, by some mistake at home 
about the time of my return, your letter was sent to 
Brighton just after I left it ; no matter, it reached me 
safe at last, and I thank you very much for all its contents, 
particularly the letter to Warwick, of which the P.S. 
is certainly very curious. 

Well, but Brighton ! — you will expect to hear about 
it. I, for my part, care very little if I never hear of it 
more ; it is a most stupid, disagreeable place, but has 
the advantage of making home quite a paradise in 
comparison. I saw no person whatever that I knew 

except Mrs. and her family ; Mr. was only 

once there, from Saturday night to Monday morning, so 



240 LUCY AIKIN 

that we were forced to put up with petticoat parties — 
things which in the long run rather weary me. Nothing, 

however, could be more friendly than Mrs. 's 

attentions to me, and I greatly enjoyed both my rides 
and my bathing, for which I am also somewhat the 
better. The situation of Brighton is certainly far from 
beautiful — a shingly shore without sands and without 
rock, except a bald, low, chalk cliff on one side — a sea 
without ships and land without trees ; but it must be 
confessed that it assembles all imaginable conveniences 
for summer visitants : lodgings of every kind and price, 
horses, chaises, gigs, sociables, donkeys, and donkey- 
carts to hire ; excellent shops, libraries, news-rooms, etc. 
The bathing, however, is not in general very good ; 
they do not often push the machines far enough out to 
treat you with deep water, and you, or rather we ladies, 
have only the alternative of wading in over sharp 
shingles, and then sitting down to be knocked over and 
partially wetted by a wave, or to be carried, as I saw 
a gawky girl, between two bathing-women, head douTi- 
wards, heels kicking the air, red dirty legs belonging to 
ditto completely exposed, and the patient shrieking 
and crying like a pig taken to the slaughter — a mode 
which had rather too much the appearance of a penal 
ducking to suit my fancy. Well — but no matter for 
this now ; I am at home and found everybody well ; 

my aunt K mending. Glad they were to see me 

again, for you may believe that without Arthur and us 
two, the house would seem dull enough to my father 
and mother. I was also glad not to miss more of Mr. 

W 's company, for you know he is a great favourite 

of mine. ... To our great joy, in came Mr. Whishaw, 
and knowing that Mr. W wished to see him, we 



BATHING AT BRIGHTON 241 

sent for him. Some time after, my Aunt Barbauld 
dropped in, and a most agreeable chat we have had. 
Mr. Whishaw read to us an agreeable letter from Miss 
Edgeworth, about his '\Liie of Mungo Park," with a 

postscript by Mr. E , who is very ill and seemingly 

beginning to doat, about the possibility of exploring 
Africa in balloons, which, he says, he knows the art of 
guiding — in perfectly calm air. . . . 

Mr. W says that the Duchess of Cumberland, when 

she comes over, will probably gain great influence with 
the Regent, being a very clever, intriguing woman, 
and that the old Queen will probably be soon out of her 
way, as she is not likely to live — a hint this for buying 
mourning ! 

Good-bye. Don't let it be nearly so long before you 
wTite again. My father and mother send their kind 
love. 

Your ever affectionate sister, 

L. A. 



Lucy Aikin to Edmund Aikin 

SEEING QUEEN CHARLOTTE 

Stoke Newington, November 1815. 
My dear Edmund, — I am glad of this opportunity 
to thank you for your letter by H. K., and to tell you 
how glad we all are that you have got this new job. . . . 
Benger has been spending part of two days with us. 
She is pretty well for one who will never let herself 
alone, and full of curious anecdote as usual. Charley 
Wesley, a while ago, took a queer very fat old Mrs. 

S to see the Queen go to the Drawing-room. In 

16 



242 LUCY AIKIN 

the ante-chamber, in which they waited, were no seats, 
and the fat lady, becoming tired of standing, at last 
spread her handkerchief on the floor, and seated herself 
in a picturesque manner upon it. Charles, being a great 
blunderer, and somewhat wicked besides, gave the 
alarm several times that the Queen was coming, and 

as often poor Mrs. S made incredible efforts to get 

up and see her. At last, he had cried wolf so often 
that she did not heed him, and when the Queen came 
indeed she was not able, with the help of all his tugging, 
to rise from the ground till her Majesty was past ; 
and one end of her hoop was all that blessed the eyes 
of this loyal and painstaking subject. To complete 
the misfortune, she was kept waiting for her carriage, 
owing to Charles's stupidity, till her dinner was spoiled, 
and the friends she had invited to eat it were quite out 
of patience ; and to mend all, this rare composition of 
wit and goose tells the whole story as a good joke, 
mimicking her to admiration. . . . 

I ought to tell you that we have had a call from Mr. 
Rogers, who was very agreeable and entertaining with 
his accounts of Italy. What a beau King Murat is ! 
The morning Mr. Rogers was presented to him he was 
standing in the middle of a large room, displaying his 
fine figure in a Spanish cloak, hat, and feather, yellow 
boots, pink pantaloons, and a green waistcoat ! In 
the evening he appears in a simpler costume, but still 
wearing roses on his shoes, a white plume in his hat, 
and his hair prodigiously curled and frizzed, with a 
long love-lock hanging down on each side. He does 
not dress above five times a day. Then, no king in 
Europe, probably, cuts such high capers in the dance — 
but for other qualifications for reigning, I hear nothing 



SAMUEL ROGERS 243 

of them. Naples is beautiful, says Mr. Rogers, and 
the Court very gay and pretty ; but, after all, Florence 
is the place one longs to live in. No city of its size has 
half so many fine domes and towers ; then the beautiful 
Arno meets your eye at every turn, and beyond it the 
finest woods and distant mountains. His descriptions 
quite set me longing ; such glades of myrtle, such groves 
of orange-trees, stuck as full of fruit, he says, as the 
trees you see sometimes painted by a child ! . . . 

We are all quite well here, and all send love to you. 
Your affectionate sister, 

L. A. 



Lucy Aikin to Edmund Aikin 

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD'S DEBUT 

Stoke Newington, 1817. 
Dear Edmund, — I must give you an anecdote of 
lionising which I have just heard. Mrs. Opie, who is 
still in London, was holding one of her usual Sunday- 
morning levees, when up comes her footman, much 
ruffled, to tell her that a man in a smock frock was below, 
who wanted to speak to her — would take no denial — 
could not be got away. Down she goes to investigate 
the matter. The rustic advances, nothing abashed : 
" I am James Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd." The poet 
is had up to the drawing-room, smock frock and all, 
and introduced to everybody. Presently he pulls out 
a paper — some verses which he had written that morning 
and would read, if agreeable. With a horrible Scotch 
accent, and charity-boy twang, he got through some 
staves, nobody understanding a line. "Mr. Hogg," 



244 LUCY AIKIN 

says Mrs. Opie, " I think, if you will excuse me, I could 
do more justice to your verses than yourself " ; so 
takes them from him, and with her charming delivery, 
causes them to be voted very pretty. On enquiring, 
it is found that the shepherd is on a visit to Lady 
Cork, the great patroness of lions (see The Twopenny 
Post-Bag) ; is exhibited, and has doubtless, since his 
arrival, merited this illustrious protection, by ex- 
changing, for an habiliment so sweetly rustic, the new 
green coat, pink waistcoat, and fustian small clothes, 
in which such a worthy would naturally make a debut 
in the great city ! As for " Lalla Rookh," it is pretty 
and very pretty : tender, melodious, and adorned ; but 
my aunt Barbauld says 'tis my flower-dish, sweet and 
gay, and tastefully arranged, but the flowers do not 
grow there : they are picked up with pains here and 
there. He has thrown an infinite quantity of oriental 
allusion into his verse, but the reader sympathises in 
some degree in the labour of the writer — there is no 
general interest, no entrainement — abundance of senti- 
mental beauty, however, as well as descriptive, some 
very manly lines on liberty, etc., in the prose some 
charming banter of reviewers — on the whole, I hope you 
will read it. My father has finished the writing of his 
Annual Register and is beginning his enlargement of 
*' England Delineated." I cannot persuade him that 
he works too hard ; though we are all sure that it is 
true. 

Good-bye, good-bye : I miss you very much, and 
so do we all. Never forget that there are those who 
love and are anxious for you. 

Your dearly affectionate, 

L. A. 



J 



"LALLA ROOKH" 245 

Lucy Aikin to Dr. and Mrs. Aikin 
MRS. Piozzi, ^T. 79 

Lambridge, July 5, 1818. 
My dear Father and Mother, — You may believe 
that I have not neglected to renew my acquaintance 
with my old friend, Mrs. B. After mutual calls, she 
invited me to a thing mightily in my line — a concert. 
I was gratified, however, with some of the music, and 
glad to find that her eldest girl is regarded as a kind 
of musical prodigy, to the delight of father and mother. 
In a corner of the room sat a little thin old lady, muffled 
up in a black dress, without a bit of white to be seen, 
with a high, smart head-dress, well rouged cheeks, long 
nose, and very lively black eyes, whose picturesque 
appearance almost instantly attracted my notice. 
" Let me introduce you," cried Mrs. B. "to Mrs. Piozzi ! " 
** By all means," exclaimed I, for a hundred associations 
made me long to talk with the rival of " Bozzy " ; and 
I went and sat by her. Her vivacity has not forsaken 
her, and I have been at once gratified and tantalised on 
our return from Bath this morning, to find her card 
left for me. I hope to find her at home when I return 
the visit. She is now seventy-nine, and seems as if 
she might enjoy life a long time yet. . . . 

Lucy Aikin to the Rev. Dr. Channing 

THE BRITISH MUSEUM IN 1 833 

Adelphi, June 13, 1833. 
My DEAR Friend, — . . . How I long to know whether 
you are proposing to cross the sea to us ! I cannot help 
thinking it would answer to you in every way. It is 



246 LUCY AIKIN 

really a new world since you saw England. The pro- 
gress in many ways has been of unexampled rapidity. 
You mil find London embellished beyond expression. 
I ramble amongst the new buildings with unceasing 
admiration, striving in vain to recall the old state of 
some of the best known streets. We may now boast 
in the British Museum of a collection to which the world 
has nothing comparable, and the suite of rooms lately 
added is worthy of its destination. What adds a moral 
interest to this assemblage of the treasures of nature and 
art is the splendid testimony it affords to the public 
spirit of Englishmen. The gifts of individuals to their 
country preserved here are almost of inestimable value, 
even in a commercial view. In France, on the contrary, 
their museums have been entirely furnished by the 
purchases or the plunder of the Government. Not 
even ostentation there moves private persons to m.ake 
presents to the public. There is another pleasing 
circumstance. A few years since, access to the Museum 
was so difficult that it was scarcely visited by twenty 
persons in a day ; now, in compliance with the spirit of 
the age, it is thrown open to all, and Brougham's Penny 
Magazine has so familiarised all readers with the collec- 
tion that you see the rooms thronged by thousands, many 
from the humblest walks of life. I observed common 
soldiers and " smirched artisans," all quiet, orderly, 
attentive, and apparently surveying the objects with 
intelligent curiosity. Depend upon it, there never was 
a time in which true civilisation was making such strides 
amongst us. You said very justly, some time ago, that 
we are only in the beginning of a revolution : the spirit 
of reform has gone forth, conquering and to conquer : 
every day it extends its way into new provinces ; but 



WOMAN'S SPHERE 247 

it is, it will continue to be, a peaceful sway, a bloodless 
conquest. The strongholds of abuse yield, one after 
another, upon summons. Wellington himself will not 
be able to bring his " order " into conflict with the 
majesty of the people. I never looked with so much 
complacency on the state of my country. I believe her 
destined to a progress in all that constitutes true glory, 
which we of this age can but dimly figure to ourselves 
in the blue distance. The bulk of our people are at 
length well cured of the long and obstinate delusion 
respecting the wisdom of our ancestors, which so power- 
fully served the purposes of the interested oppressors 
of improvement. Novelties are now tried upon their 
merits ; perhaps even there is some partiality in their 
favour. 

Pray, pray, come and judge of us with your own eyes ! 
Believe me, ever yours most truly, 

L. AlKIN. 



Lucy Aikin to the Rev. Dr. Charming 

WOMEN AND VOTES 

Hampstead, October 14, 1837. 
My dear Friend, — Your welcome letter, yesterday 
received, contains matters which will not suffer me to 
leave it a day longer unanswered. Well might you be 
sorry at the tidings that I sympathised in Miss M.'s 
ideas of the sphere of woman ; but if she is in the habit 
of advancing her opinions on no stronger foundations 
than she has for this, small must be the proportion of 
truth in them. The facts are these. I saw her a few 
days after her book came out, when I had only looked 
in it for half an hour, and was even ignorant that she 



248 LUCY AIKIN 

had said anything on the subjects of marriage and 
divorce, on which I hold her doctrine to be as ignorant, 
presumptuous, and pernicious as possible. With regard 
to her notions of the political rights of women, I certainly 
hold, and it appears to me self-evident that, on the 
principle that there should never be taxation without 
representation, women who possess independent property 
ought to vote ; but this is more the American than the 
English principle. Here it is, or was, rather, the doctrine 
that the elective franchise is a trust given to some for 
the good of the whole ; and on that ground I think the 
claim of women might be dubious. Yet the Reform Bill, 
by affixing the elective franchise only, and in all cases, 
to the possession of land, or occupancy of houses of a 
certain value, tends to suggest the idea that a single 
woman possessing such property as unrestrictedly as a 
man, subject to the same taxes, liable even to some 
burdensome, though eligible to no honourable or profit- 
able, parish offices, ought in equity to have, and might 
have ^vithout harm or danger, a suffrage to give. I 
vote for guardians of the poor of this parish by merely 
signing a paper, why might I not vote thus for members 
of Parliament ? As to the scheme of opening to women 
professions and trades, now exercised only by men, I 
am totally against it, for more reasons than I have 
time to give. 

Lucy Aiken to the Rev. Dr. Channing 

THE INEQUALITY OF MAN 

Hampstead, April i8, 1838. 
... I really am totally unable to understand your 
faith in the coming of a time when all men will be 



CLASS DISTINCTIONS 249 

regarded by all as equals. Such a time can plainly not 
come without community of goods, and to that I see 
no tendency ; nor can it arrive whilst any division of 
labour exists. As long as one man works only with 
his hands, and another with his head, there will be 
inequality between them of the least conventional kind : 
inequality in knowledge, in the objects of thought, in 
the estimate of existence, and of all that makes it 
desirable. Among the rudest savages there has always 
been inequality, produced by that nature itself which 
gives to one man more strength and more understanding 
than another ; and all the refinements of social life open 
fresh sources of inequality. Even in a herd of wild 
cattle there is inequality, produced by differences of age, 
and sex, and size ; and what imaginable power or process 
can ever bring human creatures to a parity ? As little 
can I see how such a state would be the practical 
assertion of the preference due to the " inward over the 
outward," to " humanity over its accidents." Are 
not many of these sources of inequality really inward ? 
Are not the accidents inseparable from humanity ? 
The things which elevate man above his fellows are all 
powers of one kind or other ; wealth is a power, since 
it can purchase gratifications and services ; birth is a 
power, where the laws have made it the condition of 
enjoying privileges or authority ; where they have not 
done so, it speedily sinks into contempt. Genius is a 
power ; weight of moral character is a power ; beauty 
is a power ; knowledge is a power. The possessor of any 
of these goes with his talent to the market of life, and 
obtains with it or for it what others think it worth their 
while to give — some more, some less. Can or ought 
this to be otherwise ? The precious gifts of nature 



250 LUCY AIKIN 

must be valued so long as humanity is what it is ; the 
results of application, of exertion, mental, bodily, cannot 
cease to bear their price without deadening all the 
active principles in man. I see, indeed, a tendency in 
high civilisation to break down in some degree the ancient 
barriers between class and class, by opening new roads 
to wealth, to fame, and to social distinction. Watt and 
Davy, Reynolds and Flaxman, could not safely be 
treated with disdain either by Howards and Mowbrays, 
or by the " millionaires " of commerce ; but this does not 
assist those who have nothing to rest upon but mere 
human nature itself. These may be equal to their more 
privileged brethren before God ; they may, and ought 
to be, equal in the eye of the law, but socially equal — 
I do not see the possibility. You approve the aristocracy 
of wealth so far as it tends to break in upon that of rank, 
and to mix all classes — but how far would you carry 
this mixture ? Shall I begin tea-drinkings with my 
maudlin washerwoman ? Will you invite to your table 
the bow-legged snip who made your coat ? How soon, 
alas ! at this rate would the rivulet of refinement be 
swallowed up in the ocean of vulgarity ! What models 
would remain of manners, of language, of taste in 
literature or the arts ! What a mere work-a-day world 
would this become ! The coarse themselves would grow 
coarser, and in the end sensuality would rise victorious 
over all. 

The opinions in which all could agree must be absurd 
and extravagant ones, for, as Locke observes, " truth 
and reason did never yet carry it by the majority any- 
where." The talk in which all can join is seldom such 
as any one is much better for hearing. If it be true 
that " there is no man of merit but hath a touch of 



FAMILY NEWS 251 

singularity, and scorns something," surely merit must 
always be allowed to scorn ignorance, or grossness 
incapable of estimating it ; and this cannot but include 
a kind of disdain of the society of the lower classes. 
Pray answer me all this, for I think I must have mis- 
apprehended your idea. 



ANN GODV/IN (d. 1809) 

BEFORE her marriage with Mr. Godwin, a dissenting minister, 
was a Miss Hull. Of her thirteen children, WilUam Godwin 
the philosopher, the husband of Mary Wollstonecraft and 
father-in-law of Shelley, alone became famous. Mrs. Godwin's 
letters are curious and homely examples of the letters of an 
anxious mother and careful housewife. 



To William Godwin * 

FAMILY NEWS 

February 6, 1800. 

Dear Wm., — I should be glad to hear a good account 

of Joseph. I doubt much his amendment it is not the 

first time he has overcome you with fine words. He 

seems according to what I can learn to be poorer for y* 

/44 I have given him than he was before he had it, he 

can't neither board nor clothe Harriot. I hear she is 

gone to service somewhere in the country. Well, she 

had better begin low than be puff'^ up with pride now 

and afterwards become low, for she had certainly no 

1 The two following letters by Ann Godv/in are reprinted by 
kind permission of Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Triibner & Co., 
Ltd., from Mr. C. Kegan Paul's " Life of William Godwin." 



252 MRS. GODWIN 

good examples at home. I heard once she was in ex- 
pectation of being sent to her Aunt Barker's, but what 
barbarity is it not to let her have shoes to her feet when 
she came to your sister's. I am glad she did not go 
where her education would have been as bad as at home. 
London is the place where girls go too for services to get 
better wages than they can in the country, but I know 
the reason is her is given up to pride and sensuality and 
well know where y' will lead to and all that tread in 
the same steps. I hoped, tho' it was not likely, to have 
done him good and your sister too but I find I am mis- 
taken. We in the country deny ourselves because of y® 
dearness of provisions, make meal dumplings, meal 
crusts to pies mix'd with boil'd rice and a very little 
butter in them, our bread meal and rice which we have 
bou* at twopence per pound, and very good it is, pan- 
cakes w'h boil'd rice in water till tender and very little 
milk or egg with flower, we have had a very favourable 
winter hitherto, only one sharp frost one fortnight. 
Did you pay Mary Bailey £^ or not, has her father done 
anything for them, how do they go on, what is their 
direction ? Is J. Jex steady and give content in his 
situation ? I wish him to learn his business stay his time. 
I hope he is bound till 2 1 years of age I hope y' brother 
John mil take a prudent care. I cannot promise 
for Natty he wishes to be in business for himself and to 
marry. He has made one attempt but she was pre- 
engaged and I don't know another in the world I should 
like so well, so most likely he must remain a servant 
all his days. Providence ought to be submitted to, 'tis 
but a little while we have to live here in comparison of 
Eternity and wedlock is attended with many cares and 
fears. I arn not well very few days together tho' I 



MOTHERLY ANXIETY 253 

keep about. My great complaint is a bad dijestion. I 
desire to resign myself to y"' almighty will in everything 
my life to me is now a burthen rather than a pleasure. 
I wish you the truest happiness I don't mean what y" 
world calls happiness for that's of short duration, but a 
prospect of that happiness that will never fade away. 
From your affectionate mother, 

A. Godwin. 



A7tn Godwin, to William Godwin 

SITTING UNDER MR. SYKES 

November 15, 1803. 
My dear William, — Whose countenance gave me 
the highest delight to see with your wife, whom I also 
respect for her many amiable qualities. I wish you 
had paid so much respect to good Mr. Sykes as to have 
heard him preach one Lord's Day in your good father's 
Pulpit. Think with yourself, if you were in his place, 
and your mother's that loves you, and at the same time 
highly values Mr. Sykes, who in many respects is the 
very Image of your dear father, for friendliness and 
wish to do everybody good. A man of unblemished 
carrector and serious godliness. He told me he was 
ingaged before he received my invitation to spend the 
afternoon, which I was sorry for, for he is so sensible a 
man, that you could not but been pleased with his 
company. It now remains to tell you and Mrs. Godwin 
I have done the best I ever could about the sheets, and 
think them a very great pennyworth. I desired Hannah 
to cut off lines of her letter, and send them to you how 
to remit the money — £4 4s. — for the sheets, and one 



254 MRS. GODWIN 

shilling for the pack cloth, which makes £4 $s. Pay it 
into Barklay's bank taking his receipt on your letter for 
Ann Godwin sen.'s account at Guirneys Bank Norwich. 
They will do it without putting you to the expence of a 
stamp. Leave room to cut it off, that I may send it. 

Mrs. Godwins kind letter I rec'd ; was rejoiced you 
got safe home, and met your dear children in good 
helth, and the particulars of your journey. The time 
we spent together was to me very pleasing, to see you 
both in such helth and so happy in consulting to make 
each other so, which is beutiful, in a married state, and, 
as far as I am able to judge, appears husifly ^ which is a 
high recommendation in a wife : give her the fruit of her 
hands, and let her own hands praise her. I might go 
back to the loth verse. But will conclude with, favour 
is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman that 
feareth the lord, she shall be praised. 

I wish your brother John had ever so mean a place 
where he had his board found, if it were Mr. Finche's 
footman's for he must actually starve on half a guinea 
a week. If his master will give him a carrector. I have 
sent him 7 lb. of butter, but that can't last long and I 
am in earnest. If he don't seek a place while he has 
deasent clothes on his back, nobody will take him in. 
I cannot nor I will not, support him. I shall not be 
ashamed to own him, let him be in ever so low a station, 
if he have an honest carrector. He is two old to go to 
sea, but may do for such a place if his pride will let him : 
its better than a jale, and I can't pretend to keep him 
out. Now I have another melancholy story to tell you. 
Your dear brother Natty, I fear, is declining apace. He 
is still at Mr. Murton's, but I have invited him home to 
1 Housewifely. 



THE UNEMPLOYED 255 

do what I can for him. If my maid cannot nurse him 
he must have one. Tell Hannah Mr. Hull's brother 
Raven seems declining too, may perhaps live the winter 
out, but has no appetite, nor keep out of bed half the 
day. You see Deth is taking his rounds, and the 
young as well as the old are not sure of a day. The 
Lord grant that we may finish our warfare, so as not to 
be afraid to die. 

Now I will tell you Mr. Sykes's text last Lord's Day — 
Isaiah liv., ''O thou afflicted and tossed with tempess, 
behold I will lay thy stones with fare coulars, and lay 
thy foundations with sapphires " — one of the finest 
sermons I ever heard. I wish you to read Henery's 
exposition on that chapter. 

I am unwell with a cold. I've not been so well since 
you left us. I believe I did myself no good with such 
long walks, but have not missed a meeting since. Mr. 
and Mrs. G. send their respects to you, and so do their 
children and my maid Molly. 

I would advise you to let your children learn to knit 
little worsted short stockens, just above their shoes, to 
keep their feet from chillblains this winter. We cannot 
but be anxious about this war. It was pride that 
begun it, and will most likely ruin it. Cursed pride that 
creeps securely in, and sw^els a haughty wurm. It was 
the sin that cast the divils out of heaven, and our first 
parents out of Paradise. — I am, with real affection, your 
loving mother, 

Ann Godwin. 

I have sent you two pocket handkerchifs, a pair 
course stockens for your brother, the rest for my Grand- 
son John. 



2 $6 JANE TAYLOR 



JANE TAYLOR (1783-1824) 

A DAUGHTER of Isaac Taylor, an engraver, and pastor of an 
Independent Congregation. Jane Taylor and her sister 
Anne (afterwards Mrs. Gilbert) when about thirteen assisted 
their father in his business. In 1798 they contributed to 
an Annual, and from that date rapidly produced volumes 
of Poems and Hymns for children. Jane also wrote tales 
and essays, but her " Original Poems " for children attained 
extraordinary popularity and even at the present day are 
the chief favourites of little people. 



Jane Taylor to Miss S. L. C. 

TIME AND TEMPERAMENT 

Colchester, February 12, 1806. 
... In truth Jane Taylor of the morning, and 
Jane Taylor of the evening, are as different people, in 
their feelings and sentiments, as two such intimate 
friends can possibly be. The former is an active, handy 
little body, who can make beds or do plain work, and now 
and then takes fancy for drawing, etc. But the last 
mentioned lady never troubles her head with these 
menial affairs ; nothing will suit her but the pen ; and 
though she does nothing very extraordinary in this way, 
yet she so far surpasses the first-named gentlewoman, 
that any one who had ever received a letter from both, 
would immediately distinguish between the two, by the 
difference of style. But to drop this ingenious allegory, 
I assure you it represents the truth, and I am pretty well 
determined not again to attempt letter-writting before 
breakfast. For really I am a mere machine — the most 



ON LETTER WRITING 257 

stupid and dronish creature you can imagine, at this 
time. The unsentimental realities of breakfast may 
claim some merit in restoring my mental faculties ; 
but its effects are far surpassed by the evening's tea : — 
after that comfortable, social, invigorating meal, I am 
myself, and begin to think the world a pleasanter place, 
and my friends more agreeable people, and {entre nous) 
myself a much more respectable personage, than they 
have seemed during the day : so that by eight o'clock 
I am just worked up to a proper state of mind for writing. 
If you are liable to these changing frames, you will not 
only excuse and feel for me, but heartily acquiesce in 
my resolution of now putting down the pen till the 
evening. 

It is now indeed evening, and several days have 
passed since I wrote the foregoing ; and I do assure you 
that nothing but the fear of being unable to fill another 
sheet in time for my father's departure should prevail 
v/ith me to send you so much nonsense. I often reproach 
myself for writing such trifling letters ; but it is so easy 
to trifle, and so hard to write what may be worth reading, 
that it is a sad temptation not to attempt it. . . . 



Jane Taylor to Miss S. L. C. 

THE CULTURED HOUSE-WIFE 

Colchester, June 2, 1808. 
... We have already had some delightful evening 
rambles. When we are all out together on these happy 
occasions I forget all my troubles, and feel as light- 
hearted as I can remember I used to do some seven 

17 



25^ JANE TAYLOR 

or eight years ago, when I scarcely knew what was 
meant by depression. If I should ever lose my relish 
for these simple pleasures — if I thought by growing 
older, my feelings would no longer be alive to them, 
I should be ready indeed to cling to youth, and petition 
old Time to take a little rest, instead of working so 
indefatigably, night and day, upon me. But alas ! he 
is such a persevering old fellow, that nothing can hinder 
him ; one must needs admire his industry, even though 
one may now and then be a little provoked with obstinacy. 
But, seriously, it is not right to shrink from age, much 
less from maturity ; and could I be sure of retaining 
some of my present ideas, feelings, and sentiments, 
and of parting only with those that are vain and childish, 
I think I could welcome its near approach with a toler- 
ably good grace. But I dread finding a chilling indiffer- 
ence steal gradually upon m.e, for some of those pursuits 
and pleasures which have hitherto been most dear to 
me — an indifference which I think I have observed in 
some of the meridian of life. I am always, therefore, 
delighted to discover in people of advancing years any 
symptoms of their being still susceptible of such enjoy- 
ments ; and in this view, the letters of Mrs. Grant afforded 
me peculiar gratification : increasing years seem to have 
deprived her of no rational enjoyment. If time clipped 
a little the wings of her fancy, she was still able to soar 
above the common pleasures of a mere housewife — no 
reflection, by the by, upon that respectable character ; 
believe me, I reverence it ; and always regard with 
respect a woman who performs her difficult, compli- 
cated, and important duties with address and propriety. 
Yet I see no reason why the best housewife in the world 
should take more pleasure in making a curious pudding 



THE CULTURED HOUSE-WIFE 259 

than in reading a fine poem ; or feel a greater pride in 
setting out an elegant table than in producing a well- 
trained child. I perfectly glory in the undeniable 
example Mrs. Grant exhibits of a woman filling up all 
the duties of her domestic stations with peculiar activity 
and success, and at the same time cultivating the minds 
of her children usefully and elegantly ; and still allowing 
herself to indulge occasionally in the most truly rational 
of all pleasures — the pleasures of intellect. 

I daresay you read a paper in The Christian Observer 
for April on Female Cultivation. I feel grateful to the 
sensible and liberally minded author. I do believe the 
reason why so few men, even among the intelligent, 
wish to encourage the mental cultivation of women, is 
their excessive love of the good things of this life ; they 
tremble for their dear stomachs, concluding that a 
woman who could taste the pleasures of poetry or 
sentiment would never descend to pay due attention to 
those exquisite flavours in pudding or pie, that are so 
gratifying to their philosophic palates ; and yet, poor 
gentlemen, it is a thousand pities they should be so 
much mistaken ; for, after all, who so much as a woman 
of sense and cultivation will feel the real importance of 
her domestic duties ; or who so well, so cheerfully per- 
form them. . . . 



MARY LAMB (1764-1847) 

THE devoted and only sister of Charles Lamb. She wrote 
the comedies for the " Tales from Shakespeare." This popu- 
lar book was followed by " Mrs. Leicester's School," and 
much of the " Poetry for Children." Mary Lamb never 
left her brother except when compelled to do so on account 



26o MARY LAMB 

of her health ; she survived him thirteen years, and was 
buried by his side. The following letters show that she 
possessed some of her brother's quaint humour. 



Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddard {Mrs. William 
Hazlitt) 1 

MARY lamb's gossip 

May 14, 1806. 

My dear Sarah, — No intention of forfeiting my 
promise, but mere want of time has prevented me from 
continuing my Journal. You seem pleased with the long, 
stupid one I sent, and, therefore, I shall certainly 
continue to wTite at every opportunity. The reason 
why I have not had any time to spare, is because Charles 
has given himself some hollidays after the hard labour 
of finishing his farce, and, therefore, I have had none of 
the evening leisure I promised myself. Next week he 
promises to go to work again. I wish he may happen 
to hit upon some new plan, to his mind, for another 
farce : when once begun I do not fear his perseverance, 
but the hollidays he has allowed himself, I fear, will 
unsettle him. I look forward to next week mth the 
same kind of anxiety I did to the first entrance at the 
new lodging. We have had, as you know, so many 
teasing anxieties of late, that I have got a kind of habit 
of foreboding that we shall never be comfortable, and 
that he wdll never settle to work ; which I know is 
wrong, and which I will try with all my might to over- 
come — for certainly, if I could but see things as they 
really are, our prospects are considerably improved since 

1 The following letters of Mary Lamb are printed by kind per- 
mission of ]\Ir. W. C. Hazlitt. 



THE TEA PARTY 261 

the memorable day of Mrs. Fenwick's last visit. I have 
heard nothing of that good lady, or of the Fells, since 
you left us. 

We have been visiting a little — to Noriss's, to God- 
win's ; and last night we did not come home from 
Captain Burney's till two o'clock : the Saturday night 
was changed to Friday, because Rickman could not 
be there to-night. We had the best tea things, and the 
litter all cleared away, and everything as handsome as 
possible — Mrs. Rickman being of the party. Mrs. 
Rickman is much increased in size since we saw her last, 
and the alteration in her strait shape wonderfully 
improves her. Phillips was there, and Charles had a 
long batch of Cribbage with him : and, upon the whole, 
we had the most cheerful evening I have known there 
a long time. To-morrow we dine at Holcroft's. These 
things rather fatigue me ; but I look for a quiet week 
next week, and hope for better times. We have had 
Mrs. Brooks and all the Martins, and we have likewise 
been there ; so that I seem to have been in a continual 
bustle lately. I do not think Charles cares so much for 
the Martins as he did, which is a fact you will be glad to 
hear — though you must not name them when you write : 
always remember, when I tell you any thing about them, 
not to mention their names in return. 

We have had a letter from your brother by the same 
mail as yours I suppose ; he says he does not mean to 
return till summer, and that is all he says about him- 
self ; his letter being entirely filled with a long story 
about Lord Nelson — but nothing more than what the 
newspapers have been full of, such as his last words, 
etc. Wliy does he tease you with so much good advice ; 
is it merely to fill up his letters, as he filled ours, with 



262 MARY LAMB 

Lord Nelson's exploits ? or has any new thing come 
out against you ? has he discovered Mr. Curse -a-r at 's 
correspondence ? I hope you will not write to that 
news-sending gentleman any more. I promised never 
more to give my advice, but one may be allowed to hope 
a little ; and I also hope you will have something to 
tell me soon about Mr. W[hite] : have you seen him yet ? 
I am sorry to hear your Mother is not better, but I am 
in a hoping humour just now, and I cannot help hoping 
that we shall all see happier days. The bells are just now 
ringing for the taking of the Cape of Good Hope. 

I have written to Mrs. Coleridge to tell her that her 
husband is at Naples ; your brother slightly named his 
being there, but he did not say that he had heard from 
him himself. Charles is very busy at the office ; he 
will be kept there to-day till seven or eight o'clock : and 
he came home very smoky and drinky last night ; so that 
I am afraid that a hard day's work will not agree very 
well with him. 

Oh dear ! What shall I say next ? Why this I will 
say next, that I wish you was with me ; I have been 
eating a mutton chop all alone, and I have been just 
looking in the pint porter pot, which I find quite empty, 
and yet I am still very dry. If you was with me, we 
would have a glass of brandy-and-water ; but it is quite 
impossible to drink brandy-and-water by oneself ; 
therefore I must wait with patience till the kettle boils. 
I hate to drink tea alone, it is worse than dining alone. 
We have got a fresh cargo of biscuits from Captain 
Burney's. I have March [May] 14. — Here I was in- 
terrupted ; and a long, tedious interval has intervened, 
during which I have had neither time nor inclination 
to write a word. The Lodging — that pride and pleasure 



CHARLES LAMB'S TEASING WAYS 263 

of your heart and mine, is given up, and here he is again, 
Charles, I mean — as unsettled and as undetermined as 
ever. When he went to the poor lodging, after the 
hoUidays I told you he had taken, he could not endure 
the solitaxiness of them, and I had no rest for the sole 
of my foot till I promised to believe his solemn protesta- 
tions that he could and would write as well at home as 
there. Do you believe this ? 

I have no power over Charles — he will do — what he 
will do. But I ought to have some little influence over 
myself. And therefore I am most manfully resolving 
to turn over a new leaf with my own mind. Your 
visit to us, though not a very comfortable one to your- 
self, has been of great use to me. I set you up in my 
fancy as a kind of thing that takes an interest in my 
concerns ; and I hear you talking to me and arguing the 
matters very learnedly, when I give way to despondency. 
You shall hear a good account of me, and the progress 
I make in altering my fretful temper to a calm and quiet 
one. It is but being once thorowly convinced one is 
wrong, to make one resolve to do so no more ; and I 
know my dismal faces have been almost as great a draw- 
back upon Charles's comfort as his feverish, teazing 
ways have been upon mine. Our love for each other has 
been the torment of our lives hitherto. I am most 
seriously intending to bend the whole force of my mind 
to counteract this, and I think I see some prospect of 
success. 

Of Charles ever bringing any work to pass at home, 
I am very doubtful ; and of the farce succeeding, I have 
little or no hope ; but if I could once get into the way 
of being chearful myself, I should see an easy remedy 
in leaving town and living cheaply, almost wholly 



264 MARY LAMB 

alone ; but till I do find we really are comfortable alone, 
and by ourselves, it seems a dangerous experiment. We 
shall certainly stay where we are, till after next Christ- 
mas ; and in the meantime, as I told you before, all my 
whole thoughts shall be to change myself into just such a 
chearful soul as you would be in a lone house, with no 
companion but your brother, if you had nothing to vex 
you — nor no means of wandering after Curse-a-rats. 

Do write soon : though I write all about myself, I am 
thinking all the while of you, and I am uneasy at the 
length of time it seems since I heard from you. Your 
Mother, and Mr. White, is running continually in my 
head ; and this second winter makes me think how cold, 
damp, and forlorn your solitary house will feel to you. 
I would your feet were perched up again on our fender. 

Manning is not yet gone. Mrs. Holcroft is brought 
to bed. Mrs. Reynolds has been confined at home with 
illness, but is recovering. God bless you. 

Yours affectionately, 

M. Lamb. 



Mary Lamb to Sarah Stoddart 

" TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE " 

June 2, 1806. 
My dear Sarah, — You say truly that I have sent you 
too many make-believe letters. I do not mean to serve 
you so again, if I can help it. I have been very ill for 
some days past with the toothache. Yesterday I had it 
drawn ; and I feel myself greatly relieved, but far from 
easy, for my head and my jaws still ache ; and, being 
unable to do any business, I would wish to write you a 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 265 

long letter to atone for my former offences ; but I 
feel so languid, that I am afraid wishing is all I 
can do. 

I am sorry you are so worried with business ; and I 
am still more sorry for your sprained ancle. You ought 
not to walk upon it. What is the matter between you 
and your good-natured maid you used to boast of ? 
and what the devil is the matter with your Aunt ? 
You say she is discontented. You must bear with them 
as well as you can ; for, doubtless, it is your poor mother's 
teazing that puts you all out of sorts. I pity you from 
my heart. 

We cannot come to see you this summer, nor do I 
think it advisable to come and incommode you, when 
you for the same expense could come to us. Whenever 
you feel yourself disposed to run away from your troubles 
come up to us again. I wish it was not such a long 
expensive journey, then you could run backwards and 
forwards every month or two. 

I am very sorry you still hear nothing from Mr. White. 
I am afraid that is all at an end. What do you intend 
to do about Mr. Turner ? 

I believe Mr. Rickman is well again, but I have not 
been able to get out lately to enquire, because of my 
toothache. Louisa Martin is quite well again. 

William Hazlitt, the brother of him you know, is in 
town. I believe you have heard us say we like him ? 
He came in good time ; for the loss of Manning made 
Charles very dull, and he likes Hazlitt better than 
anybody except Manning. My toothache has moped 
Charles to death : You know how he hates to see 
people ill. 

Mrs. Reynolds has been this month past at Deptford, 



266 MARY LAMB 

so that I never know when Monday comes. I ara glad 
you have got your mother's pension. 

My Tales are to be pubhshed in separate story-books ; 
I mean, in single stories, like the children's little shilling 
books. I cannot send you them in manuscript, because 
they are all in the Godwins' hands ; but one will be 
published very soon, and then you shall have it all in 
print. I go on very well, and have no doubt but I shall 
always be able to hit upon some such kind of job to 
keep going on. I think I shall get fifty pounds a year 
at the lowest calculation ; but as I have not yet seen 
any money of my own earning, for we do not expect to 
be paid till Christmas, I do not feel the good fortune, 
that had so unexpectedly befallen me, half so much as 
I ought to do. But another year, no doubt, I shall 
perceive it. 

When I write again, you will hear tidings of the farce, 
for Charles is to go in a few days to the Managers to 
enquire about it. But that must now be a next-year's 
business too, even if it does succeed ; so it's all looking 
forward and no prospect of present gain. But that's 
better than no hopes at all, either for present or future 
times. 

Charles has written Macbeth, Othello, King Lear, and 
has begun Hamlet ; you would like to see us, as we often 
sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion sitting) 
like Hermia and Helena in the Midsummers' Night's 
Dream ; or rather, like an old literary Darby and Joan : 
I taking snuff, and he groaning all the while, and saying 
he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he 
has finished, and then he finds out he has made some- 
thing of it. 

If I tell you that, you Widow-Blackacreise, you must 



ON HUSBANDS 267 

tell me I Tale-ise, for my Tales seem to be all the subject- 
matter I write about ; and when you see them, you will 
think them poor little baby-stories to make such a talk 
about ; but I have no news to send, nor nothing, in short, 
to say, that is worth paying twopence for. I wish I 
could get franks, then I should not care how short or 
stupidly I wrote. 

Charles smokes still, and will smoke to the end of the 
chapter. 

Martin Burney has just been here. My Tales {again) 
and Charles's Farce has made the boy mad to turn 
Author ; and he has written a Farce, and he has made the 
Winter's Tale into a story ; but what Charles says of 
himself is really true of Martin, for he can make nothing 
at all of it : and I have been talking very eloquently 
this morning, to convince him that nobody can write 
farces, etc. under thirty years of age. And so I suppose 
he will go home and new-model his farce. 

What is Mr. Turner ? and what is likely to come of 
him ? and how do you like him ? and what do you in- 
tend to do about it ? I almost wish you to remain single 
till your mother dies, and then come and live with us ; 
and we would either get you a husband or teach you 
how to live comfortably without. I think I should like 
to have you always to the end of our lives living with us ; 
and I do not know any reason why that should not be, 
except for the great fancy you seem to have for marrying, 
whkh after all is but a hazardous kind of an affair : but, 
however, do as you like ; every man knows best what 
pleases himself best. 

I have known many single men I should have liked in 
my life (if it had suited them) for a husband : but very 
few husbands have I ever wished was mine, which is 



268 MARY LAMB 

rather against the state in general ; but one never is 
disposed to envy wives their good husbands. So much 
for marrying — but, however, get married, if you can. 

I say we shall not come and see you, and I feel sure we 
shall not : but, if some sudden freak was to come into 
our wayward heads, could you at all manage ? — your 
mother we should not mind, but I think still it would 
be so vastly inconvenient. I am certain we shall not 
come, and yet you may tell me, when you write, if it 
would be horribly inconvenient if we did ; and do not 
tell me any lies, but say truly whether you would rather 
we did or not. 

God bless you, my dearest Sarah ! I wish for your 
sake I could have written a very amusing letter ; but do 
not scold, for my head aches sadly. Don't mind my 
headache, for before you get this it will be well, being 
only from the pains of my jaws and teeth. Farwel. 

Yours affectionately, 

M. L\MB. 



Mary Lamb to Miss Barbara Betham 

CHARLES LAMB AND HIS STUDY 

November 2, 18 14. 

It is very long since I have met with such an agreeable 
surprise as the sight of your letter, my kind young 
friend, afforded me. Such a nice letter as it is too. 
And what a pretty hand you write. I congratulate you 
on this attainment with great pleasure, because I have 
so often felt the disadvantage of my own wretched 
handwriting. 

You wish for London news. I rely upon Sister Ann 



LOOKING BACK 269 

for gratifying you in this respect, yet I have been 
endeavouring to recollect whom you might have seen 
here, and what may have happened to them since, and 
this effort has only brought the image of little Barbara 
Betham, unconnected with any other person, so strongly 
before my eyes that I seem as if I had no other subject 
to write upon. Now I think I see you with your feet 
propped up on the fender, your two hands spread out 
upon your knees — an attitude you always chose when 
we were in familiar confidential conversation together 
— telling me long stories of your own home, where 
now you say you are " moping on with the same thing 
every day," and which then presented nothing but 
pleasant recollections to your mind. How well I 
remember your quiet steady face bent over your book. 
One day, conscience-struck at having wasted so much 
of your precious time in readings, and feeling yourself, 
as you prettily said " quite useless to me," you went 
to my drawers and hunted out some unhemmed pocket- 
handkerchiefs, and by no means could I prevail upon 
you to resume your story books till you had hemmed 
them all. I remember, too, your teaching my little 
maid to read — your sitting with her a whole evening 
to console her for the death of her sister ; and that 
she in her turn endeavoured to become a comfort to 
you the next evening when you wept at the sight of 
Mrs. Holecroft, from whose school you had recently 
eloped because you were not partial to sitting in the 
stocks. Those tears, and a few you once dropped when 
my brother teased you about your supposed fondness 
for apple dumplings, were the only interruptions to the 
calm contentedness of your unclouded brow. We still 
remain the same as you left us, neither better nor wiser. 



270 MARY LAMB 

nor perceptibly older, but three years must have made 
a great alteration in you. How very much, dear 
Barbara, I should like to see you ! 

We still live in Temple Lane, but I am not sitting 
in a room you never saw. Soon after you left us we 
were distressed by the cries of a cat, which seemed to 
proceed from the garrets adjoining to ours, and only 
separated from ours by the locked door on the farther 
side of my brother's bedroom, which you know was 
the little room at the top of the kitchen stairs. We 
had the lock forced and let poor puss out from behind 
a panel of the wainscot, and she lived with us from 
that time, for we were in gratitude bound to keep her, 
as she had introduced us to four untenanted unowned 
rooms, and by degrees we have taken possession of 
these unclaimed apartments — first putting up lines to 
dry our clothes, then moving my brother's bed into 
one of these, more commodious than his own room. 
And last winter, my brother being unable to pursue a 
work he had begun, owing to the kind interruptions of 
friends who were more at leisure than himself, I per- 
suaded him that he might write at his ease in one of 
these rooms, as he could not then hear the door knock, 
or hear himself denied to be at home, which was sure 
to make him call out and convict the poor maid in a 
fib. Here, I said, he might be almost really not at 
home. So I put in an old grate, and made him a fire in 
the largest of these garrets, and carried in one table 
and one chair, and bid him write away, and consider 
himself as much alone as if he were in some lodging 
on the midst of Salisbury Plain, or any other wide 
unfrequented place where he could expect few visitors to 
break in upon his solitude. I left him quite delighted 



LAMB'S STUDY 271 

with his new acquisition, but in a few hours he came 
down again with a sadly dismal face. He could do 
nothing, he said, with those bare whitewashed walls 
before his eyes. He could not write in that dull un- 
furnished prison. 

The next day, before he came home from his office, 
I had gathered up various bits of old carpeting to 
cover the floor ; and, to a little break the blank look 
of the bare walls, I hung up a few old prints that used 
to ornament the kitchen, and after dinner, with great 
boast of what an improvement I had made, I took 
Charles once more into his new study. A week of busy 
labour followed, in which I think you would not have 
disliked to have been our assistant. My brother and 
I almost covered the walls with prints, for which purpose 
he cut out every print from every book in his old library, 
coming in every now and then to ask my leave to strip 
a fresh poor author — which he might not do, you know, 
without my permission, as I am elder sister. There 
was such pasting, such consultation where their por- 
traits, and where a series of pictures from Ovid, Milton, 
and Shakespeare would show to most advantage, and 
in v/hat obscure corner authors of humbler note might 
be allowed to tell their stories. All the books gave 
up their stories but one — a translation from Ariosto — a 
delicious set of four-and-twenty prints, and for which 
I had marked out a conspicuous place ; when lo ! 
we found at the moment the scissors were going to 
work that a part of the poem was printed at the back 
of every picture. What a cruel disappointment ! To 
conclude this long story about nothing, the poor despised 
garret is now called the print-room, and is become our 
most favourite sitting-room. Your sister Anne will 



272 MARY LAMB 

tell you that your friend Louisa is going to France. 
Miss Skipper is out of town ; Mrs. Reynolds desires to be 
remembered to you, and so does my neighbour Mrs. 
Norris, who was your doc tress when you were unwell. 
Her three little children have grown three big children. 
The lions still line Exeter 'Change. Returning home 
through the Strand, I often hear them roar about 
twelve o'clock at night. I never hear them without 
thinking of you, because you seemed so pleased with 
the sight of them, and said your young companions 
would stare when you told them you had seen a lion. 
And now, my dear Barbara, farewell ; I have not 
written such a long letter a long time, but I am very 
sorry I had nothing amusing to write about. Wishing 
you may pass happily through the rest of your school 
days, and every day of your life, 

I remain, your affectionate friend, 

M. Lamb. 
My brother sends his love to you [and was as much 
pleased] with the kind remembrance your letter shewed 
you have of us as I was. He joins with me in respects 
to your good father and mother. Now you have begun, 
I shall hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you 
again. I shall always receive a letter from you with 
very great delight. 

ANGELICA KAUFFMANN, R.A. (1741-1807) 

THE famous painter, was one of the first Royal Academicians. 
She was talented, beautiful, and a musician, and is said to 
have cherished a romantic regard for Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
Lady Thackeray has made her the heroine of her story, "Miss 
Angel." Miss Kauffmann was twice married and died in 
Rome. 



TIVOLl 273 

To a Friend 

RUINS AT TIVOLI 

Rome, June 7, 1806. i 
. . . My kindest and warmest thanks have this time 
been longer delayed on account of a little excursion 
made in the country. I passed near three weeks in 
Tivoli, about twenty miles from Rome ; a charming 
place, so much sung and praised by Horace, where 
he had his villa — of which however little or nothing 
remains — more is yet to be seen of the villa of Mecaenas 
— and the villa Adriana — and some others — but de- 
structive time has reduced all to the pleasure of imagina- 
tion — perhaps a melancholy pleasure, to see only some 
poor remains of the greatest magnificence. Oh that 
you, my worthy friend, could see this place, or that 
I could once more have the happiness to see you in 
dear England, to which my heart is so much attached, 
and where I should once more see you, my worthy 
friend, with the greatest joy. Too happy should I 
think myself to be myself the bearer of the picture 
I had the pleasure of executing for you. In peaceable 
times it would not, perhaps, have been amongst the 
impossible things. Could I, however, find in the 
meantime a safe opportunity to get it conveyed to 
you, I should certainly not lose it, as I long you should 
have at least this small token of my gratitude for the 
many and numberless obligations, for all the favours 
you continue to bestow upon me. It makes me very 
happy to know that you and all your relations are well : 
be so kind as to remember me to them in the most 
respectful manner. I conclude this returning you my 
most grateful thanks. I beg for the continuance of 

18 



274 ANGELICA KAUFFMANN 

your friendship : and have the honour to be, with 
the greatest esteem and gratitude, 

Your most obHged humble servant and friend, 

Angelica Kauffmann. 



Angelica Kauffmann, R.A., to a Friend 

A HOLIDAY LETTER 

Albano, September 20, 1806. 

Before this reaches your hands Mr. B , to whom 

I wrote the beginning of this month, I hope, according 
to my request, has informed you that I have, in due 
time, received your obhging favour. ... I find myself 
in this delightful place since the 20th of August last. 
This change of air was necessary for the better restora- 
tion of my health, which has so much suffered by the 
long-lasting rheumatic pains I suffered in my breast ; 
but now, thank God ! this air has been so beneficial 
to me, that all my complaints are vanished, and my 
spirits recovered. 

I hope this will find you and all those that are dear 
to you in perfect health : remember me to them most 
affectionately. All hopes of peace, I fear, are vanished. 
I am sorry for it, for many reasons. The picture was and 
is ready for exportation. I shall remain in this place 
all this month, if the weather continues good, and 
perhaps part of the next. The situation is beautiful ; 
but we are now and then visited with some shocks 
of earthquake, which have done considerable damage, 
in most of the neighbouring places ; here they were 
not very sensible. Thank God ! I should have been 
much alarmed. 



NAMING THE BABY 275 

Pardon me for being thus tedious to you. I conclude, 
repeating my sincerest, kindest, and warmest thanks 
to you for all your kindness, for all the attention you 
have for me, which I do not know how to deserve. 
Nor have I words to express the sincere attachment 
with which I am, and shall be as long as I exist. 
Your truly obliged, humble servant and 

most affectionate friend, 

Angelica Kauffmann. 



DOROTHY WORDSWORTH (1771-1855) 

ONLY sister of the poet WilUam Wordsworth. In her journal 
can be traced some of the germs which were developed by her 
brother into some of his most exquisite poetry such as his 
Daffodils. Wordsworth once said of her " She gave me eyes, 
she gave me ears." In 1832 she had a severe illness, from 
which she never entirely recovered. 



To Lady Beaumont ^ 

NAMING THE BABY 
Grasmere, Tuesday Evening, June 17 [1806]. 
My dear Friend, — You will rejoice with us in my 
sister's safety, and the birth of a son. There was some- 
thing peculiarly affecting to us in the time and manner 

1 The following letters of Dorothy Wordsworth are reprinted 
by kind permission of Professor William Knight, from his editions 
of the Correspondence of the Wordsworth family, published in 
the U.S.A. 



2/6 DOROTHY WORDSWORTH 

of this child's coming into the world. It was like the 
very same thing over again which happened three 
years ago ; for on the i8th of June, on such another 
morning, after such a clear and starlight night, the 
birds singing in the orchard in full assembly as on this 
15th, the young swallows chirping in the self-same 
nest at the chamber window, the rose-trees rich with 
roses in the garden, the sun shining on the mountains, 
the air still and balmy — on such a morning was Johnny 
born, and all our first feelings were revived at the birth 
of his brother two hours later in the day, and three 
days earlier in the month ; and I fancied that I felt 
a double rushing-in of love for it, when I saw the child, 
as if I had both what had been the first-born infant 
John's share of love to give it, and its own. We said 
it was to be called William at first, but we have since 
had many discussions and doubts about the name ; 
and Southey, who was here this morning, is decided 
against William ; he would keep the father's name 
distinct, and not have two William Wordsworths. It 
never struck us in this way ; but we have another 
objection which does not go beyond our own household 
and our own particular friends, i.e. that my brother 
is always called William amongst us, and it will create 
great confusion, and we cannot endure the notion of 
giving up the sound of a name, which, applied to him, 
is so dear to us. In the case of Dorothy there is often 
much confusion ; but it is not so bad as it would be 
in this case, and besides, if it were only equally con- 
fusing, the inconvenience would be doubled. Your 
kind letter to my brother arrived yesterday, with your 
sister's most interesting account of her sensations on 
ascending the Mont Denvers.^ I shuddered while I 



MOUNTAIN-CLIMBING 277 

read ; and though admiration of the fortitude with 
which she endured the agony of her fear was the upper- 
most sentiment, I could not but sHghtly blame her for 
putting herself into such a situation, being so well 
aware of her constitutional disposition to be thus 
affected. For my own part, I do think that I should 
have died under it, and nothing could prevail upon me 
to undertake such an expedition. When I was in the 
whispering gallery at St. Paul's, I had the most dreadful 
sensation of giddiness and fear that I ever experienced. 
I could not move one foot beyond the other, and I 
retired immediately, unable to look down ; and I am 
sure when the sense of personal danger should be added 
to that other bodily fear, it would be too much for me ; 
therefore I had reason to sympathise with your sister 
in the course of her narrative. 

I hope you will find the inn tolerably comfortable, 
as I am informed that one of the upper rooms, w^hich 
was formerly a bedroom, is converted into a sitting- 
room, which entirely does away our objections to the 
house for you — the upper rooms being airy and pleasant, 
and out of the way of noise. Among my lesser cares, 
and hopes, and wishes, connected with the event of 
your coming to Grasmere, the desire for fine weather 
is uppermost ; but it will be the rainy season of this 
country, and we have had so much fine and dry weather, 
that we must look forward to some deduction from our 
comfort on that score. We received your second letter 
with the tidings of the finding of the Journal, the day 
after we had received the first. You may be sure we 
were very glad it was found. It is a delicious evening, 
and after my confinement to the house for these two 
days past I now doubly enjoy the quiet of the moss- 



278 DOROTHY WORDSWORTH 

hut where I am writing. Adieu ! BeHeve me, my 
dear Lady Beaumont, your afiectionate friend, 

D. Wordsworth. 

I have expressed myself obscurely about our objec- 
tions to calling the child by William's name.^ I meant 
that we should not like to call him but as we have 
been iised to do. I could not change William for 
Brother in speaking famiUarly, and his wife could not 
endure to call him Mr. Wordsworth. Dorothy is in 
ecstasies whenever she sees her little brother, and she 
talks about him not only the day through, but in her 
dreams at night, " Baby, baby ! " 



Dorothy Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont 

THE PRESENT OF BOOKS 

Grasmere, June 24, 1806. 
My dear Friend, — I begin my letter with an expecta- 
tion of being summoned at every moment to deliver 
it up, along with others which I have been %vriting, 
to my brother and Miss Hutchinson, who are going 
to meet the post at Rydal ; but I cannot omit informing 
you how we go on, as I know you will be anxious about 
us ; besides, we have received the box, etc. ; and it is 
fit that I should release your mind of all further care 
respecting its contents, which came in perfect safety, 
and have given general satisfaction, and great joy to 
your god-daughter (for poor Johnny is not here to 
look at the beautiful library which you have sent him) ; 

1 The child was christened Thomas. 



THE GODMOTHER 279 

but could you see Dorothy, how she spreads her hands 
and arms, and how she exclaims over each book, as 
she takes it from the case, and the whole together — 
such a number ! (when by special favour she is per- 
mitted to view them), then you would indeed be repaid 
for the trouble and pains you have taken ! She lifts 
her arms, and shouts and dances, and calls out, " Johnny, 
book ! Dear godmother sent Johnny book ! " She 
looks upon them as sacred to Johnny, and does not 
attempt to abuse them. She is also very much de- 
lighted with her little almanack, but not in such an 
enthusiastic manner ; for I never saw anything like her 
joy over the whole libra.ry of books. But enough of 
this. I spoil a pen wdth every letter I write. The 
binding of the manuscript destined for Coleridge is 
exactly to our minds, and Mr. Tuffin is not only forgiven 
but we feel a little compunction for the reproaches 
which slipped from us when we supposed it to be 
lost. 

I am called for. My brother and Miss Hutchinson 
are ready. Adieu ! Yours ever, 

D. Wordsworth. 



SUSAN FERRIER (1792-1854) 

DAUGHTER of Mr. Farrier, agent to the Duke of Argyll 
at Inverary and Rosneath. Her first novel was written 
jointly with Miss Clavering, a niece of the Duke's, Miss 
Clavering, however, contributing only one chapter. Scott 
was a great admirer of Miss Ferrier, praising her work and 
also her Uveliness and conversational powers. Her three 
novels, " Marriage," " The Inheritance," and " Destiny," were 
all published anonymously, and enjoyed great popularity. The 



28o SUSAN FERRIER 

speculation regarding the authorship of her novels led to 
Sir Walter Scott being credited with the writing of them. 



To Miss Clavenng'^ 

TOWN OR COUNTRY 

My dear Charlotte, — Had you asked me to take 
Old Nick by the tail, or pull the man o' the moon by 
the horns, there's no saying what lengths my friendship 
might have carried me ; but really to expect that at 
this gay season I should forsake the flaunting town 
for your silent glens is a sacrifice too great for mere 
feminine affection ! 'Tis what the most presuming 
lover would hardly dare to demand from the most 
tender mistress ; and were I to accord thus much to 
friendship what would I leave for love ? You'll allow 
I could not carry my enthusiasm to a higher pitch in 
this world than to undertake such a journey upon 
your account, and the consequences would be that 
were he to ask me to accompany him on a jaunt to 
the next it would be thought monstrous disobliging to 
refuse ! This must, therefore, prove a deathblow to 
your hopes, as it must be evident to you that I would 
only undertake such a thing at the risk of my life, to 
say nothing of the little casualties of coughs, colds, 
etc., that would assail me in the course of my travels, 
and the whole formidable host of the materia medica 
who would be drawn up to oppose my progress. I've 
made no mention of the many delights I should leave 

1 The following letters of Susan Ferrier are reprinted from 
her " Memoir and Correspondence," by Mr. John Ferrier, edited 
by Mr. J. A. Doyle, by permission of the publisher, Mr. John 
Murray. 



THE INITIATION 281 

behind, because I should be loath to mortify you by 
the comparison of my superior enjoyments ; but allow 
me just to hint to you that dirty streets are not to be 
exchanged for dry gravel walks, that black kennels are 
rather more pleasing to the eye than blue rivers, that 
the scrapings of a blind fiddler are full as melodious as 
the chirpings of a starved robin, that the flavour of 
stinking herrings is more satisfying (to the stomach) 
than the smell of seaweed, and that the sight of clothed 
men is as gladdening to the heart as the view of naked 
trees ! But to leave off fooling, and be serious on a 
subject on which, believe me I only jest because I can 
say nothing to the purpose — how could you have the 
cruelty, not only to tantalise me with the proposal, 
but also to insinuate that it would be my own fault 
were it not accepted ! 

My dear Charlotte, I think you have known me 
long enough to know that it is not my practice to make 
professions to any one, and I hope you will therefore 
believe I say no more than I feel when I declare to 
you that had I my choice at this moment, of going to 
any quarter of the globe or part of the kingdom, I would 
without hesitation choose to be with you. I have 
no bosom friend out of my own family save you alone 
(if such you'll allow me to reckon you), and my sisters 
are now so engrossed, with their respective husbands 
and children, that their society is no longer to me what 
it was wont to be. I have, therefore, no great merit, 
you see, in preferring your company to that of any 
other person, even setting aside the similarity of our 
tastes and pursuits, which of itself would be a more 
and never failing source of pleasure and enjoyment. 
But alas ! such pleasures must never be mine. 



282 SUSAN FERRIER 

I'm doomed to doze away my days by the side of 
my solitary fire and to spend my nights in the tender 
intercourse of all the old tabbies in the town. In 
truth, your solitude is not a whit greater than mine, 
unless you reckon sound society — of that I own I have 
enough. But somehow I don't feel my spirits a bit 
exhilarated, my ideas at all enlivened, or my under- 
standing enlightened by the rattling of carriages or 
the clanking of chains ; and these be the only mortal 
sounds that meet my ears. As to conversation, that's 
quite out of the question at this season ; in the dull 
summer months people may find time to sit down 
and prose and talk sense a little, but at present they 
have something else to do with their time. My father 
I never see, save at meals, but then my company is 
just as indispensable as the tablecloth or chairs, or, 
in short, any other luxury which custom has converted 
into necessity. That he could live without me I make 
no doubt, so he could without a leg or an arm, but 
it would ill become me to deprive him of either ; there- 
fore, never even for a single day could I reconcile it 
either to my duty or inclination to leave him. There- 
fore, my dear friend, believe what you are kind enough 
to ask is for me impossible to accord. 

Susan Ferrier to Miss Clavering 

A DOG STORY 

And then I believe we shall go by Tay mouth and 

farther and farther and farther than I can tell, till 

at last we will come to a fine Castle, and a beautiful 

Ladie ^ called the Queen of the Dogs. Do you know 

Miss Clavering. 



FEMININE SOCIETY 283 

her ? Apropos of dogs, you had very near been the 
death of my darling, as you shall hear. 

AIR MAID IN BEDLAM 

One morning very lately, one morning in June, 

I rose very early and went into the toon. 

My doggie walked behind me, behind me walked he. 

For I love my dog because I know my dog loves me ! 

Oh ! cruel was Miss Clavering to send me to the street ; 
She sent me for to buy silk hosen for her feet. 
And there my leetle dog a great big dog did spye. 
And I love my dog because I know my dog loves I. 

No sooner did my leetle dog the meikle dog behold 
Than at him he did fly like any lion bold. 
It was a sad and piteous sight for tender eyes to see ; 
For I love my dog because I know my doggie loves me. 

Oh ! sore did I screech and loudly did I pray 

For some kind stick to drive the meikle dog away. 

I never shall forget my fright until the day I dee. 

For I love my dog because I know my dog loves me. 

And when I got my leetle dog his hind leg was bit thro', 
And as he could not walk I knew not what to do. 
At length I spied a coachman, beside a coach stood he. 
And I love my dog because I know my dog loves me. 

And I called to me the coachman, and unto him did say. 
Lift my dog into your coach and then drive away. 
The coachman looked full scornful till I showed a silver key. 
And I love my dog because I k-n-o-w . . my dog-g-y lo-ves 
m-e {da capo). 

This is a true and faithful account, and should be 



284 SUSAN FERRIER 

a warning to all ladies how they walk the streets with 
little doggies. Mine, I assure you, suffered severely in 
your service, and though his wound is now healed, I 
think his general health is considerably impaired by 
the shock his nerves must have experienced. The 
medical people are of opinion sea bathing might prove 
of benefit to him. I say nothing, but if you have a 
spoonful of marrow in your bones you'll sit down before 
you read another word and pen him a handsome in- 
vitation. As for the eighteen pence it cost me for 
coach hire, I shall let that pass, as I never expect to 
see it again. As for the airs you give yourself about 
wearing white silk stockings I like that mightily — 
you've a pair of good white satin ones of your own 
spinning, that will stand both wear and tear, and never 
lose their colour by washing, so you must e'en make 
them serve you through the summer, for none other 
will I send. I sent to Bessie Mure desiring her to 
surrender up her cheap gloves, as I looked upon him 
as a much more desirable thing than a dear lover, so 
she made answer that she knew of no cheap men, but 
she directed me to where I could get good gloves at 
IS. 4d. per pair. Well, away I trotted, resolved to 
become hand in glove with this pattern glover. So 
I went into the shop. 

" Show me some good stout ladies' gloves," quoth I. 

So he took down a parcel and gave me them to try ; 

I picked out a dozen of pairs and said, " Now I'm willing 

To take all these if you'll give me them at the shilling." 

Then the glover clasped his hands and said, " Madame, I 

declare 
I could not sell those gloves for less than three shillings a 

pair." 



FASHIONS IN HOSIERY 285 

So I said " I was told you had very good gloves at sixteen- 

pence, 
And your asking three shillings for these must be all a 

pretence ! " 
Then he brought forth a huge bundle and opened it out ; 
" These ma'am, are the gloves made from the hide of a trout. 
But no more to compare with the skin of a kid or dog 
Than the breast of a chicken to the back of a hog." 
So, having nothing to reply to a simile so sublime, 
I was glad to sneak off and say I would come back when I 

had more time. 
And I swear that's as true as I am now v/riting rime. 



Susan Ferrier to Miss Clavering 

THE NEW COOK 

[No date.] 
My dear Chatty, — It seems I am not to go to the devil 
with a dish-clout at this time, for from a sorry kitchen 
wench I'm now transformed into a gay ladye, and 
instead of staying at home to dress dinners I do nothing 
but go about devouring them. In plain terms, I have 
got a cook, a very bad one, but better than none, and 
I've invested her with all the regalia of the kitchen, 
and given her absolute dominion over the fish of the 
sea, and the fowls of the air, and the cattle of the earth, 
and over every creeping thing that creepeth on the 
face of the earth. I have not a minute to speak to you, 
for really I do nothing but go out to my dinner, and 
I'd a thousand times rather eat a raw turnip at home 
as go to a feast abroad and play at ladies and gentlemen 
all in a row ; but our career ends this week, and then 
we've to go into our graves and bury ourselves alive 



286 SUSAN FERRIER 

for the rest of the winter ! And then I may sit and 
hatch plots and compose poems as long as to-day and 
to-morrow if I choose ! The very pen is like to jump 
out of my fingers for joy, though it has small chance 
of participating in these glorious achievements, as its 
race is very nearly run — and a weary life it has had 
under me it must be owned. Apropos, what would 
you think of writing the life and adventures of a pen ? 
It has this instant flashed upon me that something 
might be made of such a subject. Think well of it. 
Miss, and you shall have the honour of beginning the 
story and continuing it, and if that won't satisfy you, 
shall conclude it too. As to your poem, I'm sorry I 
can't serve you, but you might just as well have seriously 
asked me to compose you a Latin oration better than 
any of Cicero's as have asked me to write verses after 
Lady Charlotte ! If you call those pitiful doggerels 
(I sent you in an access of folly) poetry, I'm sorry 
for you, Miss Clavering, but I can't help it. I could 
not write poetry if my life depended upon it, and I 
never even v/rote a single jingle of a rhyme but those 
I have sent you as aforesaid. To be sure there is one 
encouraging circumstance, that the writer of them is 
supposed to be no genius, and I'm sure anything I can 
send will afford ample confirmation, if any is required. 
I enclose you, therefore, the beginning of a thing that 
I shall finish if you think it will do, but I hope j^ou 
won't stand upon the least ceremony as to rejecting 
or receiving it as you think fit. At any rate, I entreat 
you won't tell Miss Adair that it is mine, because God 
forbid I should set up for a writer of poetry ! I would 
give anything to see your novel : do send me a morsel 
of it, I'm sure I shall like it ; and you really could not 



POETRY AND JINGLE 287 

do me such a favour as to initiate me into the mysteries 
of your imaginations. When will you be ready to 
join hands with me ? I've just seen Lord John about 
half a minute since he came here ; Bessie Mure keeps 
him in her reticule and never lets anybody get a peep 
at him : they dined here on Monday, but they got 
such a beastly repast, and were so scurvily treated, 
that I've been sick ever since with pure shame and 
vexation of stomach. 



Susan Ferrier to Miss Clavering 

THE CHOICE OF TWO EVILS 

[I8I6.] 
I relent ; here is a letter for you, so dry your eyes, 
wipe your nose, and promise to be a good child, and 
I shall forgive you for this time. I'm sure you must 
be very sorry for having displeased me, for I know 
my friendship is the only thing in the world you care 
about ; everything else compared to it is as cold porridge 
to turtle soup. Tell me how you have sped in the 
long night of my silence. Did not the sun appear to 
you like an old coal basket, and the heavens as a wet 
blanket ? Was not the moon invisible to your weeping 
eyes ? Were not the fields to your distempered fancy 
without verdure, and the boughs without blossoms ? 
And did not the birds refuse to sing, and the lambs 
to dance ? Did not the wind sometimes seem to sigh 
and the dogs to howl ? All these and a thousand 
such prodigies I know have appeared to you in the 
long interval of my silence ; but now the spell is broken, 
and all these fearful visions will vanish ; you will see 



288 SUSAN FERRIER 

the sun break out as yellow as your hair, and the moon 
shine as white as your hand ; the fields will grow as 
green as grass in December, and the birds will dance 
waltzes all the way before you from the post-office ; 
you will taste of five more dishes at dinner to testify 
your joy, and you will toss off an additional glass of 
ale in honour of every sentence I shall indite. You 
would hear how Lady Charlotte had tarried in this 
place ten days, but I got very little good of her. She 
was so cherche and recherche. She dined with me one 
day, however, and had John Wilson to show off with, 
and there arose a question whether a woman of a right 
way of thinking would not rather be stabbed as kicked by 
her husband (observe this burn hole, Miss, it is a sure 
sign that either you or I are going to be married ; but 
keep that to yourself, and excuse this parenthesis, 
which, indeed, is rather too long, but I hope you have 
not such an antipathy to them as Dean Swift had ; he, 
honest man ! could not abide the sight of them, which 
was certainly a prejudice on his part ; for mine, I 
think, there are worse things in the world than paren- 
theses). But to return to where I was (which, indeed, 
is not such an easy matter, as I must turn the page 
to see where I left off ; it was at the burnt hole, and 
here I am just coming upon another, which looks as 
if we were both going to be wed ; I wonder who it will 
be to !) I am for a stabber, but I dare say you will 
be for putting up with a kicker. It was talking of 
Lord Byron brought on the question, I maintain 
there is but one crime a woman could never forgive 
in her husband, and that is a kucking. Did you ever 
read anything so exquisite as the new canto of " Childe 
Harold " ? It is enough to make a woman fly into 



" CHILDE HAROLD *' 289 

the arms of a tiger ; nothing but a kick could ever 
have hardened her heart against such genius. 



ELIZABETH INCHBALD (1753-1821) 

ACTRESS 'and dramatist, was a daughter of John Simpson, 
a Suffolk farmer. She went to London in 1772, and there 
married Joseph Inchbald, an actor. In 1780 she appeared 
at Covent Garden, but did not achieve great success until 
nine years later, when she began to write plays. She also 
edited a voluminous collection of British dramatists, and 
wrote two novels : " A Simple Story " and " Nature and Art.' 



To Mrs. Phillips 

THE FIRE 

Sunday, February 26, 1809. 

I saw nothing of the conflagration of Covent Garden 
Theatre, but was a miserable spectator of all the horrors 
of Drury Lane. I went to bed at ten, was waked at 
a quarter before twelve, and went into the front 
room opposite to mine, while the flames were surrounding 
the Apollo at the top of the playhouse, and driven 
by the wind towards the New Church, which appeared 
every moment to be in danger. 

I love sublime and terrific sights, but this was so 
terrible I ran from it ; and in my own room was aston- 
ished by a prospect more beautiful, more brilliantly 
and calmly celestial, than ever met my eye. No appear- 
ance of fire from my window except the light of its 
beams ; and this was so powerful, that the river, the 
houses on its banks, the Surrey Hills beyond, every 
boat upon the water, every spire of a church, Somerset 

19 



290 ELIZABETH INCHBALD 

House and its terrace on this side — all looked like 
one enchanted spot, such as a poet paints, in colours 
more bright than nature ever displayed in this foggy 
island. I do not proceed out of my own house on 
this subject, for the newspaper will tell you all the 
rest. I had on that very day begun to read a book 
which gratified my taste and my opinions very much ; 
it contained Sermons in favour of the Stage. I was 
proud to find a clergyman so judicious and so liberal 
on this topic. You will be surprised to find that this 
book came to me as a present from the author, when 
I tell you that his name is Plumptre. 

This puts me in mind of indulging my vanity. In 
my profession I am sometimes idle for months or years ; 
but, when I resolve on writing, I earn my money with 
speed. No resolution of the kind has however come to 
me of late ; and yet, the week before last, I earned 
fifty guineas in five minutes, by merely looking over 
a catalogue of fifty farces, drawing my pen across 
one or two, and writing the names of others in their 
place : and now all those in that catalogue are to be 
printed with " Selected by Mrs. Inchbald " on the 
title page. The prodigious sale my Prefaces have had 
has tempted the booksellers to this offer. 

E. I. 



Mrs. Inchbald to her Sister 
A week's dietary 

. . . Take chocolate for breakfast. If you be faint, 
wine and toasted bread between breakfast and dinner ; 
and thus vary your dinner each day : — Sunday, a joint 



MRS. INCHBALD'S PREFACES 291 

of meat ; Monday, two lean mutton chops boiled but 
not stewed, wdth an onion, a turnip, and a carrot ; 
Tuesday, a beef steak, preferably beef roasted ; Wednes- 
day, a broiled mutton chop ; Thursday, a veal cutlet ; 
Friday, stewed oysters or eggs ; Saturday, nice boiled 
beef from the cook's shop, or a pork chop, a rabbit, or 
anything more novel you can think of. 

Eat, whenever you have an appetite, but never eat 
too heartily, especially of different things. Have cake 
or what you please at tea ; a light supper ; but go to 
bed satisfied, or you will not sleep. 

Let not Ambition mock this useful toil. 
These homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple Story of the poor. 



Mrs. Inchhald to Mrs. Phillips 

A SELF-CONTAINED FLAT 

. . . My present apartment is so small, that I am 
all over black and blue v/ith thumping my body and 
limbs against my furniture on every side : but then 
I have not far to walk to reach anything I want ; for 
I can kindle my fire as I lie in bed ; and put on my cap 
as I dine, for the looking-glass is obliged to stand 
on the same table wath my dinner. To be sure, if 
there was a fire in the night, I must inevitably be burnt, 
for I am at the top of the house, and so removed from 
the front part of it, that I cannot hear the least sound 
of anything from the street ; bid then, I have a great 
deal of fresh air ; more daylight than most people in 
London, and the enchanting view of the Thames, the 



292 MARJORY FLEMING 

Surrey Hills, and of three windmills, often throwing their 
giant arms about, secure from every attack of the 
Knight of the woful countenance.^ 



MARJORY FLEMING (1803-1811) 

" Pet Marjory," whose Ufa has been so beautifully told 
in an essay by Dr. John Brown. She was idolised by Sir 
Walter Scott, and was constantly with him during her 
short life, which was lived in Edinburgh. The letters and 
poems of this lovable little girl are remarkable productions 
for so young a child. 



To Isabella Keith 

A child's correspondence 

1809. 

My dear Isa, — I now sit down to answer all your 
kind and beloved letters v/hich you was so good as 
to write to me. This is the first time I ever wrote a 
letter in my Life. There are a great many Girls in the 
Square and they cry just like a pig when we are under 
the painful necessity of putting it to Death. Miss 
Potune a Lady of my acquaintance praises me dread- 
fully. I repeated something out of Dean Swift, and 
she said I was fit for the stage, and you may think 
I was primmed up with majistick Pride, but upon my 
word felt myselfe turn a little birsay — birsay is a word 
which is a word that William composed which is as 
you may suppose a little enraged. This horrid fat sim- 
pliton says that my Aunt is beautiful which is intirely 
impossible for that is not her nature. 

1 Her lodging was in the Strand. 



"PET MARJORY" 293 

Marjory Fleming to her Mother 

September 1811. 
My dear little Mama, — I was truly happy to hear 
that you were all well, We are surrounded with measles 
at present on every side, for the Herons got it, and 
Isabella Heron was near Death's Door, and one night 
her father lifted her out of bed, and she fell down as 
they thought lifeless. Mr. Heron said, — " That lassie's 
deed noo." "I'm no deed yet." She then threw up 
a big worm nine inches and a half long. I have begun 
dancing but am not very fond of it, for the boys strikes 
and mocks me. — I have been another night at the 
dancing ; I like it better. I will write to you as often 
as I can ; but I am afraid not every week. I long for 
you with the longings of a child to embrace you — to hold 
you in my arms. I respect you with all the respect 
due to a mother. You don't know how I love you. 
So I shall remain, your loving child, 

M. Fleming. 



Marjory Fleming to her Mother 

October 12, 1811. 
My dear Mother, — You will think that I entirely 
forgot you, but I assure you that you are greatly mistaken. 
I think of you always and often sigh to think of the 
distance between us two loving creatures of nature. 
We have regular hours for all our occupations, first 
at 7 o'clock we go to the dancing and come home at 
8, we then read our Bible and get our repeating and 
then play till ten then we get our music till 11 when 
we get our writing and accounts we sew from 12 till 



294 MARJORY FLEMING 

I, after which I get my gramer and then work till 
five. At 7 we come and knit till 8 when we dont 
go to the dancing. This is an exact description, I 
must take a hasty farewell to her whom I love, reverence 
and doat on, and who I hope thinks the same of 

Marjory Fleming. 

F.S. — An old pack of cards would be very exeptible. 

JANE AUSTEN (1775-1817) 

WAS born at Steventon Rectory, near Basingstoke. She 
was carefully educated by her father, the Rev. George Austen, 
v/ho thought highly of her talents. Her first published novel, 
"Sense and Sensibility" (i8ii), was followed by "Pride 
and Prejudice," "Mansfield Park" and "Emma" (these 
four were anonymous) ; and posthumously " Northanger 
Abbey " and " Persuasion." She died at Winchester of 
consumption at the age of forty-two. 

To her Sister ^ 

"PRIDE AND prejudice" 

Chawton, Friday, January 29 [1813]. 
I hope you received my little parcel by J. Bond on 
Wednesday evening, my dear Cassandra, and that 
you will be ready to hear from me again on Sunday, 
for I feel that I must write to you to-day. I want 
to tell you that I have got my own darling child from 
London. On Wednesday I received one copy sent 
down by Falkener, with three lines to say that he had 
given another to Charles and sent a third by the coach 

1 This letter and the following are reprinted by the courtesy 
of Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd., from " A Memoir of Jane Austen," 
by her nephew, Mr. J. E. Austen-Leigh. 



"PRIDE AND PREJUDICE" 295 

to Godmersham. . . . The advertisement is in our 
paper to-day for the first time : 185. He shall ask 
£1 IS. for my two next, and £\ %s, for my stupidest 
of all. Miss B. dined with us on the very day of the 
book's coming, and in the evening we fairly set at it, 
and read half the first vol. to her, prefacing that, having 
intelligence from Henry that such a work would soon 
appear, we had desired him to send it whenever it came 
out, and I believe it passed with her unsuspected. She 
was amused, poor soul ! That she could not help, you 
know, with two such people to lead the way, but she 
really does seem to admire Elizabeth. I must confess 
that I think her as delightful a creature as ever appeared 
in print, and how I shall be able to tolerate those who 
do not like her at least I do not know. There are a 
few typical errors ; and a " said he " or a " said she " 
would sometimes make the dialogue more immediately 
clear ; but " I do not write for such dull elves " as 
have not a great deal of ingenuity themselves. The 
second volume is shorter than I could wish, but the 
difference is not so much in reality as in look, there 
being a larger proportion of narrative in that part. 
I have lop't and crop't so successfully, however, that 
I imagine it must be rather shorter than " Sense and 
Sensibility " altogether. 

Jane Austen to J. S. Clarke, Librarian to the Prince 
Regent 

ROYAL APPRECIATION 

Chawton, near Alton, April i, 18 16. 
My dear Sir, — I am honoured by the Prince's thanks 
and very much obliged to yourself for the kind manner 



296 JANE AUSTEN 

in which you mention the work. I have also to acknow- 
ledge a former letter forwarded to me from Hans Place. 
I assure you I felt very grateful for the friendly tenor of 
it, and hope my silence will have been considered, as 
it was truly meant, to proceed only from an unwilling- 
ness to tax your time with idle thanks. Under every 
interesting circumstance which your own talents and 
literary labours have placed you in, or the favour of 
the Regent bestowed, you have my best wishes. Your 
recent appointments I hope are a step to something 
still better. In my opinion, the service of a Court 
can hardly be too well paid, for immense must be the 
sacrifice of time and feeling required by it. 

You are very kind in your hints, as to the sort of 
composition which might recommend me at present, and 
I am fully sensible that an historical romance founded 
on the house of Saxe Coburg might be much more 
to the purpose of profit or popularity than such pictures 
of domestic life in country villages as I deal in. But 
I could no more write a romance than an epic poem. 
I could not sit seriously down to write a serious romance 
under any other motive than to save my life ; and 
if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never 
relax into laughing at myself or at other people, I am 
sure I should be hung before I had finished the first 
chapter. No, I must keep to my own style and go 
on in my own way ; and though I may never succeed 
again in that, I am convinced that I should totally 
fail in any other. 

I remain, my dear Sir, 

Your very much obliged, 

and sincere friend, 

J. Austen. 



POEMS AND ROMANCES 297 

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD (1787-1855) 

WAS the only child of Dr. Mitford of Hampshire. On her 
tenth birthday her father gave her a lottery ticket which 
drew a prize of ;^20,ooo. Her first volume of poems was 
published in 1810. In 1820 she found it necessary to write 
for the purpose of earning money ; and four of her tragedies 
were acted, but are now forgotten. But Miss Mitford is 
still remembered for her work entitled " Our Village," a 
series of delightful sketches of English rural life. 



To Sir William Elford ^ 

WORDSWORTH AND THE SIMPLE LIFE 

Bertram House, November g, 1818. 
Yes, my dear Sir William, your prognostics were 
right ; a scolding letter was actually written and sent 
off two days before I received the charming packet 
about which you are pleased to talk so much nonsense 
in the way of apology. You must forgive the scolding, 
and you will forgive it I am sure ; for you know I was 
not then apprised of the grand evils of mind and body 
by which you were assailed — the teeth and the rats. 
I hope these enemies are in a good train to be overcome 
and cured — that the teeth are multiplying and the 
rats decreasing. N.B. — If you want a first-rate breed 
of cats we can supply you. We- have a white cat, half 
Persian, as deaf as a post, with one eye blue and the 
other yellow, who, besides being a great beauty, is the 

1 The following letters by Miss Mitford are printed by courtesy 
of Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd., from the Rev. A. G. L'Estrange's 
" Life of Mary Russell Mitford." 



298 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 

best ratcatcher in the county. Shall we save you one 
of the next litter of white kittens ? 

You ask me about Blackwood's " Edinburgh Maga- 
zine " : I will tell you just what it is — a very libellous, 
naughty, wicked, scandalous, story-telling, entertaining 
work — a sort of chapel-of-ease to my old friend the 
Quarterly Review ; abusing all the wits and poets 
and politicians of our side, and praising all of yo7^rs ; 
abusing Hazlitt, abusing John Keats, abusing Leigh 
Hunt, abusing (and this is really too bad), abusing 
Haydon, and lauding Mr. Gifford, Mr. Croker, and Mr. 
Canning. But all this, especially the abuse, is very 
cleverly done ; and I think you would be amused by 
it. I particularly recommend to you the poetical 
notices to correspondents, the " Mao Banker of Amster- 
dam " and some letters on the sagacity of the shepherd's 
dog by that delightful poet, James Hogg, . . . When 
I was telling you some of Mr. Wordsworth's absurdities, 
did I tell you that he never dined ? I have just had 
a letter from Mrs. Hofland, who has been with her 
husband to the Lakes, and spent some days at a Mr. 

Marshall's, for whom Mr. H was painting a picture 

— but Mrs. Hofland shall speak for herself : — " On my 
return from Mr. M.'s to our Ullswater Cottage, I en- 
countered a friend who condoled with me on the dullness 
of my visit. ' Dull ! ' It was delightful ! The long triste 
dinners, the breakfasts, the suppers, the luncheons ! " 
To be sure fourteen people must eat, but these said 
dinners were anything but dull, I assure you. Why 
do you call them so ? Because Mr. and Mrs. Words- 
worth were staying there, and were so overcome by 
those shocking meals, that they were forced to come 
away ? The Wordsworths never dine, you know ; 



EASY CATERING 299 

they hate such doings ; when they are hungry they go 
to the cupboard and eat ! And really," observes Mr. 
Hofland, "it is much the best way. There is Mr. 
Wordsworth, who will live for a month on cold beef, 
and the next on cold bacon ; and my husband will 
insist on a hot dinner every day. He never thinks 
how much trouble I have in ordering, nor what a plague 
my cook is ! " So you see the Wordsworth regimen 
is likely to spread. 

Very sincerely and affectionately yours, 

M. R. M. 



Mary Russell Mitford to Sir William Elford 

AN artist's egotism 

November 12 [1819]. 
I am just fresh from Farley Hill, where I have been 
spending part of two daj^s. Thank you. Mrs. Dickinson 
is going on very well, and sends compliments to you. 
Mr. Dickinson was just fresh arrived from Slough — Dr. 
Herschel's. Do you know anything of the worthy 
astronomer ? I was interested by Mr. Dickinson's 
account of him and his goings on. He has at last been 
obliged to dismount his telescope, and relinquish his 
observations ; but till within the last year he and 
his sister sat up every night, he observing, and she 
writing as he dictated. The brother is eighty -two 
and the sister seventy, and they have pursued this 
course these twenty, thirty, forty years. Is not this 
a fine instance of female devotion — of the complete 
absorption of mind and body in the pursuits of the 
brother and friend whom she loved so well ? I know 



300 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 

as little of the stars as any other superficial woman, 
who looks on them with the eye of fancy rather than 
science, and I have no great wish to know more, but 
I cannot help almost envying Miss Herschel's beautiful 
self-devotion. It is the true glory of woman, and in 
an old woman still more interesting than in a young 
one. Poor Herschel himself lost an eye some time 
ago : four or five glasses snapped, one after another, 
as he was making an observation on the sun, and a 
ray fell directly on his eye. That divine luminary 
does not choose to be pryed into. 

I must tell you a little story of Haydon at which I 
could not help laughing. Leigh Hunt (not the notorious 
Mr. Henry Hunt, but the fop, poet, and politician of 
The Examiner) is a great keeper of birthdays. He 
was celebrating that of Haydn, the great composer — 
giving a dinner, crowning his bust with laurels, be- 
rhyming the poor dead German, and conducting an 
apotheosis in full form. Somebody told Mr. Haydon 
that they were celebrating his birthday. So off he 
trotted to Hampstead, and bolted into the company — 
made a very fine, animated speech — thanked them 
most sincerely for the honour they had done him and 
the arts in h-'s person. But they had made a little 
mistake in the day. His birthday, etc., etc. 

Now, this bonhomie is a little ridiculous, but a 
thousand times preferable to the wicked wit of which 
the poor artist was the dupe. Did you ever hear this 
story ? It was told me by a great admirer of Mr. Hay- 
don's and friend of Leigh Hunt's. He is rather a 
dangerous friend, I think. He chooses his favourites 
to laugh at — a very good reason for his being so gracious 
to me ! Good-night once more, my dear friend. You 



HAYDON OR HAYDN 301 

know I always write to you at the go-to-bed time, 
just as fires and candles are going out. Good-night ! 
Ever most affectionately yours, 

M. R. MiTFORD. 



Mary Russell Mitford to Sir William Elford 

EDWARD IRVING 

Three Mile Cross, February 19, 1825. 
. . . Whilst in town I put myself in the way of a 
conversion of another sort, by going to hear Mr. Irving. 
Did 5^ou ever hear him ? If not, do : he is really 
worth a little trouble. I had read a hundred descrip- 
tions of him, and seen half a score prints, which I took 
for caricatures, till I saw him ; and then he seemed 
to me a caricature of his portraits — more tall, more 
squinting, more long black-haired, more cadaverous, 
more like Frankenstein. His sermon, too, was even 
odder than I expected, in matter and manner ; the 
latter seemed to me as good as possible, the former some- 
times good, but full of pretension and affectation of 
every sort. I have no doubt whatever but that the 
Rev. Edward Irving is the vainest person that lives 
at this moment ; and I that say so have got the honour 
of being acquainted with divers actors and sundry 
poets. I could not have conceived so much quackery 
possible in the pulpit. A small adventure befell me 
which I cannot help telling you. I went mth an old 
lady, who at the end of two hours and a half was really 
ill with the heat and the crowd, and asked me to go 
out with her. Of course I complied. When we got 
to the door we found a gentleman with his back planted 



302 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 

against it, who point-blank refused to let us out. Heard 
ever any one of being shut into a chapel ! Mr. Milman 
says an action would lie for false imprisonment ; and 
being in a barrister's house I might have had law cheap. 
My poor old friend, however, was suffering ; and I 
was not quite young enough in the world to be taken 
in. I therefore turned to the loiterers in the aisles, 
and picking out my man — a fine, spirited-looking person, 
the most anti-puritanical that you can imagine — I 
said to him, "Sir, this lady is indisposed, and that 

gentleman " " G — d — n me, madam," exclaimed 

my hopeful ally, " this is some d — d whim of Dawkins 
— I'll let you out." And forthwith he and another 
young man of his sort sprang at once on the luckless 
Dawkins (an elder of the congregation) — displaced him 
par vote du fait, and gave us free egress from the Cale- 
donian Church under the very nose of the pastor. 

On telling this story the next day to Charles Lamb, 
he told me that a friend of his, having sat through 
two hours of sermon, walked off in the same way ; 
but, just as she was leaving the church, Mr. Irving 
himself addressed her in a most violent manner from 
the pulpit, whereupon she turned round, smiled, nodded, 
curtsied, and then walked off. I certainly could not 
have done that, nor was it right, although Mr. Irving 
himself has turned a house of worship into a mere 
public place — a Sunday theatre, — where he delivers 
orations half made up of criticisms and abuse, and 
preaches for five hours a day such sermons as never 
were called sermons before. If you have not heard 
him you Avill accuse me of levity ; but I assure you 
the most scrupulous people speak of him as I do — 
everybody indeed, except the select few who compose 



EDWARD IRVING'S PREACHING 303 

his exclusive admirers — and even they praise him just 
as they praise an orator, and cry up his discourses just 
as they cry up a clever article in a magazine. I am 
sorry for this, for the man, in spite of his execrable 
taste, has power — great power. He fixes the attention, 
provokes you very much by the most inconceivable 
bombast, but never wearies you. He certainly has 
power, and if he should have the good luck to go so 
completely out of fashion, as neither to be followed, 
praised, or blamed, which is likely enough to happen 
in a year or two, I should not wonder to find him become 
a great orator. 

Adieu, my very dear friend. This is something like 
my old budget of sauciness — in length at least — and 
I am afraid in carelessness and illegibility ; but I 
am quite sure of your indulgence, and that of your 
kind family. Say everything for me to them all, 
especially to Miss Elford. 

Ever most gratefully yours, 

M. R. M. 



Mary Russell Mitford to Elizabeth B. Barrett 
{Mrs. Browning) 

A PROPHECY OF FAME 

Three Mile Cross, March 24, 1842. 
Thanks upon thanks, my beloved friend, for the 
kindness which humours even my fancies. I am 
delighted to have the reading of Anna Seward's letters. 
Perhaps we both of us like those works which show 
us men and women as they are — faults, frailties, and 
all. I confess that I do love all that identifies and 



304 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 

individualises character — the warts upon Cromwell's 
face, which like a great man as he was would not allow 
the artist to omit when painting his portrait. Therefore 
I like Hayley, and therefore was I a goose of the first 
magnitude when, for a passing moment, just by way 
of gaining for the poor bard a portion of your good 
graces (for I did not want to gain for him the applause 
of the public — he had it and lost it) , I wished his editor 
to have un-Hayley'd him by wiping away some of the 
affectations — the warts — no — the rouge, upon his face. 

My love and my ambition for you often seem to be 
more like that of a mother for a son, or a father for a 
daughter (the two fondest of natural emotions), than 
the common bonds of even a close friendship between 
two women of different ages and similar pursuits. I 
sit and think of you, and of the poems that you will 
write, and of that strange brief rainbow crown called 
Fame, until the vision is before me as vividly as ever 
a mother's heart hailed the eloquence of a patriot 
son. Do you understand this ? and do you pardon 
it ? You must, my precious, for there is no chance 
that I should unbuild that house of clouds ; and the 
position that I long to see you fill is higher, firmer, 
prouder than ever has been filled by woman. It is 
a strange feeling, but one of indescribable pleasure. 
My pride and my hopes seem altogether merged in 
you. Well, I will not talk more of this ; but at my 
time of life, and with so few to love, and with a tendency 
to body forth images of gladness and of glory, you 
cannot think what joy it is to anticipate the time. 
How kind you are to pardon my gossiping and to like it. 

God bless you, my sweetest, for the dear love which 
finds something to like in these jottings ! It is the 



HOLCROFT'S MEMOIRS 305 

instinct of the bee, that sucks honey from the hedge 
flower. 

. . . Did you ever read Holcroft's Memoirs ? If 
not, I think you would like them. I did exceedingly. 
He was a poor boy, who carried Staffordshire ware 
about the country ; then he exercised the horses at 
Newmarket. Do read it ; I know nothing more graphic 
or more true. Do you know his comedy, The Road 
to Ruin ? The serious scenes of that play, between 
the father and son, are amongst the most touching 
in the language. . . . 

Ever yours, 

M. R. MiTFORD. 



MARY W0LL3T0NSCRAFT SHELLEY (1797-1851) 

WAS bom in London, the daughter of William and Mary 
Wollstonecraft Godwin. Her education she owed mainly 
to her father. In 18 16 she became the second wife of Percy 
Bysshe Shelley and spent some five years in Italy, returning 
to England on the death of Shelley. At the age of eighteen 
she wrote a sensational romance " Frankenstein," followed 
by " Valpurga " and " The Last Man," besides " Rambles in 
Germany and Italy," and a valuable collected edition of 
Shelley's poems. 



To Mrs. Leigh Hunt 

LIFE AT LEGHORN 

Leghorn, August 28, 1819. 
My dear Marianne, — We are very dull at Leghorn, 
and I can therefore write nothing to amuse you. We 

20 



3o6 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY 

live in a little country house at the end of a green 
lane surrounded by a podSre. These podere are just 
the things Hunt would like. They are like our kitchen 
gardens, with the difference only that the beautiful 
fertility of the country gives them. A large bed of 
cabbages is very unpicturesque in England, but here 
the furrows are alternated with rows of grapes festooned 
on their supporters. It is filled with olive, fig, and 
peach trees, and the hedges are of myrtle, which have 
just ceased to flower ; their flower has the sweetest 
faint smell in the world, like some delicious spice ; green 
grassy walks lead you through the vines ; the people 
are always busy, and it is pleasant to see three or four 
of them transform in one day a bed of Indian corn to 
one of celery. They work this hot weather in their 
shirts, or smock frocks (but their breasts are bare), 
their brown legs nearly the colour, only with a rich 
tinge of red in it, of the earth they turn up. They sing 
not very melodiously, but very loud, Rossini's music, 
mi yivedrai ti revedro, and they are accompanied by 
the cicala, a kind of little beetle that makes a noise 
with its tail as loud as Johnny can sing ; they live on 
trees, and three or four together are enough to deafen 
you. It is to the cicala that Anacreon has addressed 
an ode which they call " To a Grasshopper " in the 
English translations. 

Well, here we live ; I never am in good spirits — often 
in very bad, and Hunt's portrait has already seen me 
shed so many tears, that if it had his heart as well as 
his eyes, he would weep too in pity. But no more of 
this, or a tear will come now, and there is no use for 
that. 

By the by, a hint Hunt gave about portraits. The 



Ll'FB IN ITALY 307 

Italian painters are very bad ; they might make a nose 
like Shelley's, and perhaps a mouth, but I doubt it ; 
but there would be no expression about it. They 
have no notion of anything except copying again and 
again their old masters ; and somehow mere copying, 
however divine the original, does a great deal more 
harm than good. 

Shelley has written a good deal, and I have done 
very little since I have been in Italy. I have had 
so much to see, and so many vexations independent 
of those which God has kindly sent to wean me from 
the world if I were too fond of it. S. has not had 
good health by any means, and when getting better, 
fate has ever contrived something to pull him back. 
He never was better than the last month of his stay 
in Rome, except the last week — then he watched sixty 
miserable death-like hours without closing his eyes,^ 
and you may think what good that did him. 

We see the Examiners regularly now, four together, 
just two months after the publication of the last. I 
have a word to say to Hunt of what he says concerning 
Italian dancing. The Italians dance very badly. 
They dress for their dances in the ugliest manner : 
the men in little doublets with a hat and feather ; 
they are very stiff, nothing but their legs move, and 
they twirl and jump with as little grace as may be. 
It is not for their dancing but their pantomime that 
the Italians are famous. You remember what we 
told you of the ballet of Othello. They tell a story 
by action, so that words appear perfectly superfluous 
things for them. In that they are graceful, agile, im- 
pressive and very affecting, so that I delight in nothing 
^ At the death-bed of his little boy. 



3o8 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY 

so much as a deep tragic ballet. But the dancing, 
unless as they sometimes do, they dance as common 
people ; for instance, the dance of joy of the Venetian 
citizens on the return of Othello is very bad indeed. 

I am very much obliged to you for all your kind 
offers and wishes. Hunt would do Shelley a great 
deal of good, but that we may not think of ; his spirits 
are tolerably good. But you do not tell me how you 
get on, how Bessy is, and where she is. Remember 
me to her. Clare is learning thorough bass and singing. 
We pay four crowns a month for her master, three 
times a week ; cheap work this, is it not ? At Rome 
we paid three shillings a lesson, and the master stayed 
two hours. The one we have now is the best in Leghorn. 
I write in the morning, read Latin till two, when we 
dine ; then I read some English book, and two cantos 
of Dante with Shelley. In the evening our friends 
the Gisbornes come, so we are not perfectly alone. 
I like Mrs. Gisborne very much indeed, but her husband 
is most dreadfully dull ; and as he is always with her 
we have not so much pleasure in her company as we 
otherwise shoula. . . . 



Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley to Mrs. Gisborne 

THE DEATH OF SHELLEY 

Pisa, September lo, 1822. 
And so here I am ! I continue to exist ; to see one 
day succeed the other ; to dread night, but more to 
dread morning, and hail another cheerless day. My 
boy, too, is, alas ! no consolation. When I think how 
he loved him — the plans he had for his education — hiy 



MARY SHELLEY'S GRIEF 300 

sweet and childish voice strikes me to the heart. Why- 
should he live in this world of pain and anguish ? And 
if he went I should go too, and we should all sleep in 
peace. 

At times I feel an energy within me to combat with 
my destiny — but again I sink. I have but one hope, 
for which I live — to render myself worthy to join him; 
and such a feeling sustains me during moments of 
enthusiasm ; but darkness and misery soon overwhelm 
the mind, when all near objects bring agony alone with 
them. People used to call me lucky in my star : you 
see now how true such a prophecy is ! 

I was fortunate in having fearlessly placed my destiny 
in the hands of one who — a superior being among men, a 
bright planetary spirit enshrined in an earthly temple — 
raised me to the height of happiness. So far am I now 
happy, that I would not change my situation as his widow 
with that of the most prosperous woman in the world ; and 
surely the time will at length come when I shall be at 
peace, and my brain and heart be no longer alive with 
unutterable anguish. I can conceive but of one circum- 
stance that could afford me the semblance of content — 
that is, the being permitted to live where I am now. in 
the same house, in the same state, occupied alone with 
my child, in collecting his manuscripts, writing his life, 
and thus to go easily to my grave. 

But this must not be ! Even if circumstances did not 
compel me to return to England, I would not stay 
another summer in Italy with my child. I will at 
least do my best to render him well and happy ; and 
the idea that my circumstances may at all injure him 
is the fiercest pang my mind endures. 

I wrote you a long letter, containing a slight sketch 



3IO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY 

of my sufferings. I sent it, directed to Peacock, at the 
India House, because accident led me to believe that 
you were no longer in London. I said in that, that on 
that day (August 15) they had gone to perform the last 
offices for him ; however, I erred in this, for on that day 
those of Edward were alone fulfilled, and they returned 
on the 1 6th to celebrate Shelley's. I will say nothing of 
the ceremony, since Trelawny has written an account 
of it, to be printed in the forthcoming journal. I will 
only say, that all except his heart (which was incon- 
sumable) was burnt, and that two days ago I went to 
Leghorn and beheld the small box that contained his 
earthly dress. Those smiles — that form — Great God ! 
no — he is not there ; he is with me, about me — life of 
my life, and soul of my soul ! If his divine spirit did 
not penetrate mine, I could not survive to weep thus. 

I will mention the friends I have here, that you may 
form an idea of our situation. Mrs. Williams and I live 
together. We have one purse, and, joined in misery, 
we are for the present joined in life. 

The poor girl withers like a lily. She lives for her 
children ; but it is a living death. Lord Byron has been 
very kind. But the friend to whom we are eternally 
indebted is Trelawny. I have, of course, mentioned 
him to you as one who wishes to be considered eccentric, 
but who was noble and generous at bottom. I always 
thought so even when no fact proved it ; and Shelley 
agreed with me, as he always did — or rather, I with 
him* We heard people speak against him on account of 
his vagaries : we said to one another, " Still we like 
him ; we believe him to be good." Once, even, when a 
whim of his led him to treat me with something like 
impertinence, I forgave him, and I have now been well 



TRELAWNY 311 

rewarded. In my outline of events, you will see how, 
unasked, he returned with Jane and me from Leghorn 
to Lerici ; how he stayed with us miserable creatures 
twelve days there, endeavouring to keep up our spirits; 
how he left us on Thursday, and, finding our misfortune 
confirmed, then, without rest, returned on Friday to us, 
and again without rest, returned with us to Pisa on 
Saturday. These were no common services. Since 
that, he has gone through by himself all the annoyances 
of dancing attendance on consuls and governors, for 
permission to fulfil the last duties to those gone, and 
attending the ceremony himself. All the disagreeable 
part, and all the fatigue, fell on him. As Hunt said, 
*' He worked with the meanest and felt with the best." 
He is generous to a distressing degree ; but after all 
these benefits what I most thank him for is this : — 
When, on that night of agony — that Friday night — he 
returned, to announce that hope was dead for us ; when 
he had told me that, his earthly frame being found, his 
spirit was no longer to be my guide, protector, and com- 
panion in this dark world, — he did not attempt to con- 
sole me ; that would have been too cruelly useless ; 
but he launched forth into, as it were, an overflowing and 
eloquent praise of my divine Shelley, till I was almost 
happy that I was thus unhappy, to be fed by the praise 
of him, and to dwell on the eulogy that his loss thus drew 
from his friend. 

God knows what will become of me ! My life is now 
very monotonous as to outward events ; yet how 
diversified by internal feeling ! How often, in the in- 
tensity of grief, does one instant seem to fill and embrace 
the universe ! As to the rest — the mechanical spending 
of my time — of course I have a great deal to do pre- 



312 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY 

paring for my journey. I make no visits except one, 
once in about ten days, to Mrs. Mason. Trelawny 
resides chiefly at Leghorn, since he is captain of Lord 
Byron's vessel, the Bolivar. He comes to see us about 
once a week, and Lord Byron visits us about twice a 
week, accompanied by the Guiccioli ; but seeing people 
is an annoyance which I am happy to be spared. Soli- 
tude is my only help and resource. Accustomed, even 
when he was -with me, to spend much of my time alone, 
I can at those moments forget myself, until some idea, 
which I think I would communicate to him, occurs, and 
then the yawning and dark gulf again displays itself, 
unshaded by the rainbows which the imagination had 
formed. Despair, energy, love, desponding and exces- 
sive affliction, are like clouds driven across my mind. 
one by one, until tears blot the scene, and weariness of 
spirit consigns me to temporary repose. 

I shudder with horror when I look back upon what I 
have suffered ; and when I think of the wild and miserable 
thoughts that have possessed me, I say to myself, " Is 
it true that I ever felt thus ? " and then I weep in pity 
for myself ; yet each day adds to the stock of sorrow ; 
and death is the only end. I would study, and I hope 
I shall. I would write, and, when I am settled I may. 
But were it not for the steady hope I entertain of joining 
him, what a mockery would be this world ! Without 
that hope, I could not study or wTite ; for fame and 
usefulness (except as far as regards my child) are nullities 
to me. Yet I shall be happy if anything I ever produce 
may exalt and soften sorrow, as the writings of the 
divinities of our race have mine. But how can I aspire 
to that ? 

The world will surely one day feel what it has lost. 



"ADONAIS" 313 

when this bright child of song deserted her. Is not 
Adonais his own elegy ? And there does he truly depict 
the universal woe which should overspread all good 
minds,, since he has ceased to be their fellow-labourer 
in this worldly scene. How lovely does he paint death 
to be, and with what heartfelt sorrow does one repeat 
that line : 

But I am cliain'd to time, and cannot thence depart ! 

How long do you think I shall live ? As long as my 
mother ? Then eleven long years must intervene. I 
am now on the eve of completing my five-and-twentieth 
year. How drearily young for one so lost as I ! How 
3^oung in years for one who lives ages each day in sorrow ! 
Think you that those moments are counted in my life as 
in other people's ? Ah, no ! The day before the sea 
closed over mine own Shelley, he said to Marianne, 
" If I die to-morrow I have lived to be older than my 
father. I am ninety years of age." Thus also may I 
say. The eight years I passed with him were spun out 
beyond the usual length of a man's life ; and what I 
have suffered since will write years on my brow, and 
entrench them in my heart. Surely I am not long for 
this world. Most sure would I be were it not for my 
boy ; but God grant that I may live to make his early 
years happy ! 

Well, adieu ! I have no events to wnrite about, and 
can therefore only scrawl about my feelings. This letter, 
indeed, is only the sequel of my last. In that I closed 
the history of all that can interest me. That letter 
I wish you to send my father : the present it is best 
not. 

I suppose I shall see you in England some of these 



314 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY 

days ; but I shall write 'to you again before I quit this 
place. Be as happy as you can, and hope for better 
things in the next world. By firm hope you may attain 
your wishes. Again adieu ! 

Affectionately yours, 

M. W. Shelley. 



LADY ANN BARNARD (1750-1825) 

ELDEST daughter of James Lindsay, Earl of Balcarres ; married 
Andrew Barnard, son of the Bishop of Limerick, in 1793. 
She wrote the beautiful lyric " Auld Robin Gray " in 1772, but 
its authorship remained a secret until she acknowledged it 
for the first time in the following letter to Sir Walter Scott. 



To Sir Walter Scott 

AULD ROBIN GRAY 
Berkeley Square, London, July 8, 1823. 
My dear Sir, — I am really ashamed to tell you how 
long I have remained balancing between the strong 
desire I had of addressing you, and the timidity I felt 
on encroaching upon time so valuable to the world at 
large ; but Lam convinced your good nature will not only 
pardon me, but will induce you to grant the favour I am 
about to ask. It is, that you w\\\ convey to the author of 
" Waverley," with whom I am informed you are personally 
acquainted, how gratefully I feel the kindness with which 
he has (in the second volume of " The Pirate," thirteenth 
chapter) so distinguishedly noticed and, by his powerful 
authority, assigned the long-contested ballad of " Auld 
Robin Gray ' ' to its real author. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY 315 

In truth, the position I was placed in about that song 
had at last become irksome to me ; how can I, then, so 
fully mark my thankfulness to him who has relieved me 
from my dilemma, as by transmitting to him, fairly and 
frankly, the Origin, Birth, Life, Death, and Confession, 
Will and Testament, of " Auld Robin Gray," with the 
assurance that the author of " Waverley " is the first 
person out of my own family who has ever had an 
explanation from me on the subject ? 

Robin Gray, so called from its being the name of the 
old herdsman at Balcarres, was horn soon after the close 
of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had married and 
accompanied her husband to London ; I was melancholy, 
and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few 
poetical trifles. There was an ancient Scotch melody 
of which I was passionately fond — Sophy Johnstone, 
who lived before your day, used to sing it to us at Bal- 
carres ; I longed to sing old Sophy's air to different 
words, and to give to its plaintive tones some little 
history of virtuous distress in humble life, such as might 
suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet, 
I called to my little sister, now Lady Hardwicke, who 
was the only person near me, — "I have been writing a 
ballad, my dear, — I am oppressing my heroine with many 
misfortunes, — I have already sent her Jamie to sea, and 
broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, 
and given her Auld Robin Gray for a lover, but I wish 
to load her with a fifth sorrow, in the four lines, poor 
thing ! help me to one, I pray." " Steal the cow, sister 
Anne," said the little Elizabeth. The cow was im- 
mediately lifted by me, and the song completed. At our 
fireside, amongst our neighbours, " Auld Robin Gray " 
was always called for ; I was pleased with the approba- 



3i6 LADY ANN BARNARD 

tion it met with ; but such was my dread of being sus- 
pected of writing anything, perceiving the shyness it 
created in those who could write nothing, that I carefully 
kept my own secret. 

. . . From one honest man I had an excellent hint ; 
the Laird of Dalzell, after hearing it, broke into the 
angry exclamation of " Oh, the villain ! oh, the auld 
rascal ! / ken wha stealt the poor lassie's coo — it was 
Auld Robin Gray himsel' ! " I thought this a bright idea, 
and treasured it up for a future occasion. Meantime, 
little as this matter seems to have been worthy of dispute, 
it afterwards became almost a party question between 
the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries : " Robin 
Gray " was either a very, very ancient ballad, composed 
perhaps by David Rizzio, and a great curiosity, or a 
very, very modern matter, and no curiosity at all. I 
was persecuted to confess whether I had written it, or, 
if not, where I had got it. Old Sophy kept my counsel, 
and I kept my own, in spite of the gratification of seeing 
a reward of twenty guineas offered in the newspapers 
to the person who could ascertain the point past a 
doubt, and the still more flattering circumstance of a 

visit from Mr. J , secretary to the Antiquarian 

Society, who endeavoured to entrap the truth from me 
in a manner I took amiss. Had he asked me the ques- 
tion obligingly, I should have told him the fact distinctly, 
but confidentially : the annoyance, however, of this im- 
portant ambassador from the Antiquaries was amply 
repaid to me by the moble exhibition of the ballet of 
Auld Robin Gray's courtship, as performed by dancing 
dogs under my windows ; — it proved its popularity 
from the highest to the lowest, and gave me pleasure 
while I hugged myself in my obscurity. 



JEANIE AND JAMIE 317 

Such was the history of the first part of it. As to the 
second, it was written many years after, in compUment 
to my dear old mother, who often said : " Annie ! I wish 
you would tell me how that unlucky business of Jeanie 
and Jamie ended." To meet her wishes as far as I could, 
the second part was written ; it is not so pleasing as the 
first : the loves and distresses of youth go more to the 
heart than the contritions, confessions, and legacies 
of old age ; my dread, however, of being named as an 
authoress still remaining, though I sung it to my mother, 
I gave her no copy of it, but her affection for me so 
impressed it on a memory, which [then] retained scarcely 
anything else, and she repeated it so often, with the 
pride of being the only person that had the power of 
doing so, that I think it very probable, by means of my 
mother's friend and constant companion, Mrs. Keith, 
some of the verses may have reached the hand of the 
author of " Waverley," as it was a subject of delight 
to her to boast of her intimacy with him. I have reason 
to know there exists a version of the second part from 
Jeanie's own lips, but that which has already been so 
highly honoured as to be placed where it is, shall for ever 
keep its ground with me, and the other shall remain in 
the corner of my portfolio. 

Let me now once more, my dear Sir, entreat that you 
will prevail on the author of " Waverley " to accept, in 
testimony of my most grateful thanks, of the only copies 
of this ballad ever given under the hand of the writer ; 
and will you call here, I pray, when you come next to 
London, sending up your name that you may not be 
denied. You will then find the doors open wide to 
receive you, and two people will shake hands who are 
unacquainted with ennui, — the one being innocently 



ji8 LADY ANN BARNARD 

occupied from morning to night, the other with a splen- 
did genius as his companion wherever he goes ! 
God bless you. 

Ann Barnard. 

P.S. — I see that I have not mentioned the advice 
of the old laird of Dalzell's, who, when we were Ute- 
d-Ute afterwards, said, " My dear, the next time you 
sing that song, alter the line about the crown and 
the pound, and when you have said that * saving ae 
crown piece, Jamie had naething else beside,' be sure 
you add ' to mak' it twenty merks my Jamie gaed to 
sea,' — for a Scottish pund, my dear, is but twenty 
pence, and Jamie was na siccan a gowk as to leave 
Jeanie and gang to sea to lessen his gear : — 'twas that 
sentence,' he whispered ' telled me the song was 
written by some bonnie lassie that didna ken the nature 
o' the Scotch money as well as an auld writer in the 
town of Edinboro' would hae done." 

I was delighted with the criticism of old Dalzell, — 
if it had occurred to the Antiquarian Society, it might 

have saved Mr. J the trouble of his visit ; but, 

though I admit it would have been wiser to have cor- 
rected the error, I have never changed the pound note, 
which has always passed current in its original state. 



MARY HOWITT (1799-1888) 

NEE Botham, was born at Coleford, Gloucestershire, and began 
to write while still a child. In 1821 she married William 
Howitt, who himself became an author of some repute. 
Mrs. Howitt's works, which comprise over a hundred, consist 
of translations, poems, and books of travel. Excepting 



BYRON'S DEATH 3^9 

certain poems and books for children, few of her works have 
survived her day. The Howitts were originally Quakers, 
then Spiritualists, but Mary Howitt in 1882 became a Roman 
Catholic and died in Rome, where her latter years were 
spent. 



To her Sister, Anna Harrison'^ 

byron's death and funeral 

[Nottingham] 7th Mo : 18, 1824. 

. . . Poor Byron ! I was grieved exceedingly at the 
tidings of his death ; but when his remains arrived 
here, it seemed to make it almost a family sorrow. I 
wept then, for my heart was full of grief to think that 
fine, eccentric genius, that handsome main, the brave 
asserter of the rights of the Greeks, and the first poet 
of our time, he whose name will be mentioned with 
reverence and whose glory will be uneclipsed when our 
children shall have passed to dust : to think that he 
lay a corpse in an inn in this very town. Oh ! Anna, 
I could not refrain from tears. 

Byron's faithful, generous, undeviating friend. Hob- 
house, who stood by him to the last, his friend through 
good and evil, — he only, excepting Byron's servants 
and the undertakers, came down to see the last rites 
paid. Hobhouse's countenance was pale, and strongly 
marked by mental suffering. 

But to particulars. On fifth-day afternoon the 
hearse and mourning coaches came into Nottingham. 
In the evening the coffin lay in state. The crowd was 

1 The following letters by Mary Howitt are printed from her 
" Life and Correspondence," by kind permission of Sir Isaac 
Pitman & Sons, Ltd. 



320 MARY HOWITT 

immense. We went among the rest. I shall never 
forget it. The room was hung with black, with the 
escutcheons of the Byron family on the walls ; it was 
lighted by six immense wax-candles, placed round the 
coffin in the middle of the room. The coffin was covered 
with crimson velvet richly ornamented with brass 
nails ; on the top was a plate engraved with the titles 
and arms of Lord Byron. At the head of the coffin 
was placed a small chest containing an urn, which 
enclosed the heart and brains. Four pages stood, 
two on each side; visitors were admitted by twelves, 
and were to walk round only ; but we laid our hands 
on the coffin. It was a moment of enthusiastic feeling 
to me. It seemed to me impossible that this wonderful 
man lay actually within that coffin. It was more 
like a dream than a reality. 

Nottingham, which connects everything with politics, 
could not help making even the passing respect to our 
poet's memory a political question. He was a Whig ; 
he hated priests, and was a lover of liberty ; he was 
the author of " Don Juan " and " Cain." So the 
Tory party, which is the same as saying the gentry, 
would not notice even his coffin. The parsons had 
their feud, and therefore not a bell tolled either when 
he came or went. He was a lover of liberty, which 
the Radical Corporation here thought made him their 
brother ; therefore all the rabble rout from every lane 
and alley, and garret and cellar, came forth to curse 
and swear, and shout and push, in his honour. AH 
religious people forswore him, on account of his li- 
centiousness and blasphemy ; they forgot his " Childe 
Harold," his " Bride of Abydos," the " Corsair," and 
" Lara." 



THE POET'S FUNERAL 321 

The next morning all the friends and admirers of 
Byron were invited to meet in the market-place to 
form a procession to accompany him out of town. 
Thou must have read in the papers of the funeral train 
that came from London. In addition to this were 
five gentleman's carriages, and perhaps thirty i;iders 
on horseback, besides Lord Rancliffe's tenantry, who 
made about thirty more, and headed the procession, 
and were by far the most respectable ; for never, surely, 
did such a shabby company ride in the train of mounte- 
banks or players. There was not one gentleman who 
would honour our immortal bard by riding two miles 
in his funeral train. The equestrians, instead of follow- 
ing two and two, as the paper says they did, most 
remarkably illustrated riding all sixes-and-sevens. 

William, Charles, Thomas Knott, and that odd 
Smith (thou rememberest him) went to Hucknall to 
see the interment. It, like the rest, was the most 
disgraceful scene of confusion that can well be imagined, 
for from the absence of all persons of influence, or 
alm.ost of respectability, the rude crowd of country 
clowns and Nottingham Goths paid no regard to the 
occasion, and no respect or decency was to be seen. 
William says it was almost enough to make Byron rise 
from the dead to see the scene of indecorum, and the 
poor, miserable place in which he lies, though it is 
the family burial vault. 

That mad-headed, impetuous Smith was, like the 
rest, enraged at the want of respect, which was the most 
marked trait of the interment. Although he had 
that day walked in the heat of a broiling sun fourteen 
miles, he sat up and wrote a poem on the subject, which 
I send as a curiosity. He composed and copied it by 

21 



322 MARY HOWITT 

three o'clock in the morning, went and called up Sutton, 
very much to his displeasure, had it sent to press 
by six o'clock, and by nine had the verses ready for 
publication. Byron's servants took four-and-twenty 
copies, and seemed much delighted with it. 

Is it not strange that such an unusual silence is 
maintained by the poets on the subject of his death ? 
It reminds me of the Eastern custom of breaking all 
instruments of music in any overwhelming grief, or 
on the occasion of the death of some favourite. It 
seems a theme too painful for any but a master-touch, 
and he is gone that could best do justice to such a subject. 



Mary Howitt to her Sister, Anna Harrison 

THE VISIT TO LONDON 

Nottingham, 12th Mo : 13th, 1829. 
. . . Now, dear Anna, what wilt thou say when I 
tell thee William and I set out for London the day 
after to-morrow ? My heart beats at this moment to 
think of it. I half dread it. I shall twenty times 
wish for our quiet fireside, where day by day we read 
and talk by ourselves, and nobody looks in upon us. 
I keep reasoning with myself that the people we shall 
see in London are but men and women, and, perhaps, 
after all, no better than ourselves. If we could, dear 
Anna, but divest our minds of self, as our dear father 
used to say we should do, it would be better and more 
comfortable for us. This is the only thing that casts 
a cloud on our proposed journey. In every other 
respect it is delightful, almost intoxicating. I recall to 
myself the old fame of London, its sublime position in 



COUNTRY COUSINS 323 

the world, its immensity, its interesting society, till 
I feel an impatient enthusiasm, which makes quite a 
child, of me again. Think only, dear Anna, to hear 
the very hum of that immense place, to see from afar 
its dense cloud of smoke ! These things, little and 
ordinary as they would be to many, would, I know, 
under particular circumstances, fill my eyes with tears 
and bring my heart into my throat till I could not 
say a word. But then to stand on Tower Hill, in West- 
minster Abbey, upon some old famous bridge, to see 
the marbles in the British Museum, the pictures in 
some of the fine galleries, or even to have before one's 
eyes some old grey wall in Eastcheap, or the Jewry, 
about which Shakespeare or some other worthy has 
made mention, will be to me a realisation of many a 
vision and speculation. We do not intend to stay 
more than a week, and thou mayst believe we shall 
have enough to do. We are to be with Alaric and 
Zillah Watts, and have to make special calls on the 
S. C. Halls, Dr. Bowring, the Pringles, and be intro- 
duced to their ramifications of acquaintances ; Allan 
Cunningham, L. E. L. Martin the painter, and Thomas 
Roscoe, we are sure to see, and how many more I 
cannot tell. 



Mary Howitt to her Sister, Anna Harrison 

THE TASTE OF A QUAKERESS 

Nottingham, June 14, 1830. 
. . , Why, dear Anna, if thou feelst the disadvantage 
and absurdity of Friends' peculiarities, dost thou 
not abandon them ? William has done so, and really 



324 MARY HOWITT 

I am glad. He is a good Christian, and the change 
has made no difference in him, except for the better, 
as regards looks. I am amazed now how I could 
advocate the ungraceful cut of a Friend's coat ; and 
if we could do the same, we should find ourselves re- 
ligiously no worse, whatever Friends might think. I 
never wish to be representative to any meeting, or 
to hold the ofiice of clerk or sub-clerk. All other privi- 
leges of the Society we should enjoy the same. But 
I am nervous on the subject. I should not like to wear 
a straw bonnet without ribbons ; it looks so Metho- 
distical ; and with ribbons, I again say, I should be 
nervous. Besides, notwithstanding all his own changes, 
William likes a Friend's bonnet. In all other par- 
ticulars of dress, mine is just in make the same as 
everybody else's. Anna Mary I shall never bring up 
in the payment of the tithe of mint and cummin ; and 
I fancy Friends are somewhat scandalised at the unortho- 
dox appearance of the little maiden. As to language, 
I could easily adopt that of our countrymen, but think 
with a Friend's bonnet it does not accord ; and I 
like consistency. I quite look for the interference of 
some of our exact brothers or sisters on account of my 
writings ; at least if they read the annuals next year, 
for I have a set of the most un-Friendly ballads in 
them. What does Daniel say about these things ? I 
hope he does not grow rigid as he grows older. 

I trust thou hast plenty of nice little shelves and 
odd nooks for good casts and knick-knacks. I love 
to see these things in a house, where they are well 
selected and used with discretion. Let us accustom 
our children to elegant objects, as far as our means 
permit. I think one might manage so that every common 



ART IN THE HOME 325 

jug and basin in the house were well moulded, with 
such curves as would not have offended the eye of an 
Athenian. There is much in the forms of things. I 
wish I had my time to live over again, for with my 
present knowledge, even in the buying of a brown 
pot I could do better. Thou wilt perhaps smile at 
this as folly, yet so fully am I impressed with its im- 
portance, that I point out to Anna Mary what appears 
to me good and what faulty. Morally and intellectually 
we must be better for studying perfection, and it con- 
sists of a great deal in outward forms. Even a child 
can soon perceive how in houses some things are chosen 
for their grotesqueness or picturesqueness, which is 
distinct from beauty. I do not know why I have written 
thus, for thou feelst these things just as much as I do. 



Mary Howitt to her Sister, Anna Harrison 

" OF MANY BOOKS " 

Nottingham, December 26, 1830. 
It is impossible to tell thee how I long for some 
mighty spirit to arise to give a new impulse to mind. 
I am tired of Sir Walter Scott and his imitators, and 
I am sickened of Mrs. Hemans's luscious poetry, and all 
her tribe of copyists. The libraries set in array one 
school against the other, and hurry out their trashy 
volumes before the ink of the manuscript is fairly 
dry. It is an a^bomination to my soul ; not one in 
twenty could I read. Thus it is, a thousand books 
are published, and nine hundred and ninety are un- 
readable. Dost thou remember the days when Byron's 
poems came out first, now one, and then one, at sufficient 



326 MARY HOWITT 

intervals to allow of digesting ? And dost thou re- 
member our first reading of " Lalla Rookh " ? It 
was on a washing day. We read and clapped our 
clear-starching, read and clapped, read and clapped 
and read again, and all the time our souls were not 
on this earth. Ay, dear Anna, it was either being 
young or being unsurfeited which gave such glory to 
poetry in those days. And yet I do question whether, 
if " Lalla Rookh " were now first published, I could 
enjoy it as I did then. But of this I cannot judge ; 
the idea of the poem is spoiled to me by others being 
like it. I long for an era, the outbreaking of some 
strong spirit who would open another seal. The very 
giants that rose in intellect at the beginning of the 
century — Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth — have 
become dwarfed. Many causes have conspired to 
make literature what it now is, a swarming but in- 
significant breed : one being the wretched, degraded 
state of criticism ; another is the annuals, and, in fact, 
all periodical writing, which requires a certain amount 
of material, verse or prose, in a given time. 



Mary Howitt to Father Paul Perkmann, O.S.B. 

THE RECEPTION AT THE VATICAN 

Rome, January ii, 1888. 
I cannot allow myself to have all the blessings and 
enjoyments which yesterday afforded me without endea- 
vouring to make you, at least in part, a sharer. For 
no one, I believe, would bear me more sympatheti- 
cally in mind during that eventful morning than yourself. 
It was a brilliant day, after wretchedly wet and 



THE POPE'S RECEPTION 327 

dreary weather, just as if Heaven were in perfect har- 
mony with the desires of the EngHsh pilgrims, to the 
number of about five hundred. 

Our friends, Mr. Alphonso and Miss Constantia 
Qifford, are here, you know, and this EngHsh deputation 
was under the conduct of their cousin, the Bishop of 
CHfton. Yesterday Mr. CUfEord, as a private chamber- 
lain, was in attendance on the Pope, it being considered 
in order that he, an Englishman, should be so on the 
occasion of the English deputation, at the head of which 
was, of course, the good Duke of Norfolk. 

But though on duty and very much occupied , he made 
time to receive us at the private entrance, where we 
could immediately ascend by a lift, without any fatigue, 
into a warm, comfortable ante-room. Here we could 
rest till the time came for the interview. Various dis- 
tinguished personages, whose names, high in the Church, 
were familiar to us, were moving about; and every 
now and then Mr. Clifford introduced us to them. In a 
while we were moved on, advancing perhaps through 
five or six rooms, all of which interested me greatly, 
nothing striking me more than the wonderful simplicity 
of the apartments ; all similar and wholly without orna- 
ment or costly show. At length we were in the room 
immediately adjoining and opening into the Throne- 
room, where, it now being ten o'clock, the Holy Father 
had received the Bishops of the deputation. Here we 
heard the low, calm voice of the Holy Father addressing 
the various delegates, who one after the other knelt 
before him. We were about fifty ladies and a few 
gentlemen, just the first detachment which had been 
admitted, as it would have been impossible to receive the 
full number at once ; and we were so favoured as to be 



328 MARY HOWITT 

in this first detachment. I now discovered, with a 
little nervous trepidation that /, your poor old penitent, 
was to be honoured by first receiving the blessing after 
the delegates. But, to my infinite surprise and thank- 
fulness, though I did feel a little bit startled, with a deep 
sense of my own unworthiness, I felt at the same time 
very calm and grateful, trusting that our dear Lord 
would indeed be with me. At length the moment came. 
Mr. Clifford and Mr. Hartwell Grissell were there, and 
I was within the doorway. 

I saw the Holy Father seated, not on a throne, but on 
a chair, a little raised above the level of the floor ; and 
the English Bishops, in their violet silk cloaks seated 
in two rows on either side of him. The gracious, 
most courteous Duke of Norfolk came forward and 
acknowledged us. This might last, perhaps, two minutes. 
Then Mr. Clifford led me forward to the Holy Father ; 
Margaret, as my daughter, following with Miss Clifford. 
I never thought of myself. I was unconscious of every- 
thing. A serene happiness, almost joy, filled my whole 
being, as I at once found myself on my knees before the 
vicar of Christ. My wish was to kiss his foot, but it was 
withdrawn and his hand given me. You may think 
with what fervour I kissed the ring. In the meantime 
he had been told my age and my late conversion. His 
hands were laid on my shoulders, and again and again 
his right hand in blessing on my head, whilst he spoke 
to me of Paradise. 

All this time I did not know whether I was in the body 
or not. I knew afterwards that I felt unspeakably 
happy, and with a sense of unwillingness to leave. How 
long it lasted — perhaps a minute or so — I know not, but 
I certainly was lifted into a high spiritual state of bliss, 



RELIGIOUS ENTHUSIASM 329 

such as I never had experience of before, and which now 
fills me with astonishment and deep thankfulness to recall. 
I woke in the stillness of last night with the sense of it 
upon me. It is wonderful. I hope I may never lose it. 

On leaving the room I received from a monsignore in 
attendance, with the words that the Holy Father gave 
it me, a silver medal of himself in a small red case — a 
present which was made to others of the deputation. 

The Duke of Norfolk, after this, very kindly led me 
out by another way of exit, and thus we could return 
home immediately, descending in the lift by which we 
had ascended. 

LADY CAROLINE LAMB (1785-1828) 

A DAUGHTER of the Earl of Bessborough, was married to 
William Lamb, afterwards Lord Melbourne. She wrote 
novels which gained her some celebrity, but she is chiefly re- 
membered on account of her friendship with Lord Byron, 
which occasioned some comment, but ended in a quarrel. 
Her rank, accomplishments, and personal attractions enabled 
her to take a brilliant place in the fashionable society of 
the day. Lady Caroline on meeting the funeral procession 
of Lord Byron in 1824 became insensible ; an illness followed, 
from which she never entirely recovered. 

To Lady Morgan 

" THE PILGRIM OF ETERNITY " 

[No Date] 1826 (?). 
No, no ; not that portrait^ out of my hands — I cannot 
bear ; I will have it copied for you. I must take it with 

1 This appears to be a portrait of Byron, which Lady Caroline 
left to Lady Morgan after her death. 



330 LADY CAROLINE LAMB 

me to Paris. Thank you, dear Lady Morgan, for your, 
advice, but you do not understand me, and I do not 
wonder you cannot know me. I had purposed a very 
pretty little supper for you. I have permission to see 
all my friends here : it is not William's house ; besides, 

he said he wished me to see every one, and Lady 

called and asked me who I wished to see. I shall 
therefore shake hands with the whole Court Guide before 
I go. The only question I want you to solve is, shall I go 
abroad ? Shall I throw myself upon those who no 
longer want me, or shall I live a good sort of a half kind 
of life in some cheap street a little way off, viz. the 
City Road, Shoreditch, Camberwell, or upon the top 
of a shop, — or shall I give lectures to little children, and 
keep a seminary, and thus earn my bread ? or shall I 
write a kind of quiet everyday sort of novel, full of whole- 
some truths ? or shall I attempt to be poetical, and, 
failing, beg my friends for a guinea a-piece, and their 
name, to sell my work, upon the best foolscap paper ? 
or shall I fret, fret, fret, and die ? or shall I be dignified 
and fancy myself — as Richard the Second did when he 
picked the nettle up — upon a thorn ? 

Sir Charles Morgan was most agreeable and good- 
natured. Faustus is good in its way, but has not all its 
sublimity ; it is like a rainy shore. I admire it because 
I conceive what I had heard translated elsewhere, but 
the end particularly is in very contemptible taste. The 
overture tacked to it is magnificent, the scenery beautiful, 
parts affecting, and not unlike Lord Byron, that dear, 
that angel, that misguided and misguiding Byron, whom 
I adore, although he left that dreadful legacy on me — 
my memory. Remember thee — and well. 

I hope he and William will find better friends ; as 



BYRON'S FASCINATION 331 

to myself, I never can love anything better than what 
I thus tell you ; — William Lamb first, my mother 
second, Byron third, my boy fourth, my brother 
William fifth, my father and godmother sixth ; my 
uncle and aunt, my cousin Devonshire, my brother Fred 
(myself), my cousins next, and last, my petit friend, young 
Russell, because he is my aunt's godson ; because when 
he was but three I nursed him ; because he has a hard- 
to-win, free, and kind heart ; but chiefly because he 
stood by me when no one else did. 

I am yours, 

C. L. 

Lady Caroline Lamb to Lady Morgan 

RETROSPECTION 

[No Date] 

My dearest Lady, — As being a lady whom my adored 
mother loved, your kindness about " Ada Reis " ^ I feel 
the more, as everybody wishes to run down and suppress 
the vital spark of genius I have, and, in truth, it is but 
small (about what one sees a maid gets by excessive 
beating on a tinder-box). I am not vain, believe me, 
nor selfish, nor in love with my authorship ; but I am 
independent, as far as a mite and a bit of dust can be. 
I thank God, being born with all the great names of 
England around me. I value them alone for what they 
dare do, and have done ; and I fear nobody except the 
devil, who certainly has all along been very particular 
in his attentions to me, and has sent me as many baits 
as he did Job. I, however, am, happily for myself, in as 
ill a state of health as he was, so I trust in God I shall 

1 A fantastic Eastern tale by Lady Caroline Lamb, published 
in 1823. 



332 LADY CAROLINE LAMB 

ever more resist temptation. My history, if you ever 
care and like to read it, is this : My mother, having 
boys, wished ardently for a girl ; and I, who evidently 
ought to have been a soldier, was found a naughty girl, 
forward, talking like Richard the Third. 

I was a trouble, not a pleasure, all my childhood, for 
which reason, after my return from Italy, where I was 
from the age of four until nine, I was ordered by the 
late Dr. Ware neither to learn anything nor see any one, 
for fear the violent passions and strange whims they 
found in me should lead to madness ; of which, however, 
he assured every one there were no symptoms. I differ ; 
but the end was, that until fifteen I learned nothing. 
My instinct — for we all have instincts — was for music : 
in it I delighted ; I cried when it was pathetic, and did 
all that Dryden's ode made Alexander do — of course I 
was not allowed to follow it up. My angel mother's 
ill-health prevented my living at home ; my kind aunt 
Devonshire took me ; the present Duke loved me better 
than himself, and every one paid me those compliments 
shown to children who are precious to their parents, or 
delicate and likely to die. I wrote not, spelt not ; but 
I made verses, which they all thought beautiful : for 
myself, I preferred washing a dog, or polishing a piece 
of Derbyshire spar, or breaking in a horse, to any ac- 
complishment in the world. Drawing-room (shall I 
say with-drawing-room, as they now say ?), looking- 
glasses, finery, or dress-company for ever were my 
abhorrence. I was, I am, religious ; I w^as loving (?), 
but I was and am unkind. I fell in love when only 
twelve years old, with a friend of Charles Fox — a friend 
of liberty whose poems I had read, whose self I had never 
seen, and when I did see him, at thirteen, could I change ? 



AN INTERESTING HISTORY 333 

No ; I was more attached than ever. William Lamb was 
beautiful, and far the cleverest person then about, and 
the most daring in his opinions, in his love of liberty 
and independence. He thought of me but as a child, 
yet he liked me much ; afterwards he offered to marry 
me, and I refused him because of my temper, which 
was too violent ; he, however, asked twice, and was not 
refused the second time, and the reason was that I 
adored him, I had three children ; two died ; my only 
child is afflicted : it is the will of God. I have wandered 
from right and been punished. I have suffered what 
you could hardly believe ; I have lost my mother, 
whose gentleness and good sense guided me. I have 
received more kindness than I can ever repay. I have 
suffered also, but I deserved it. My power of mind and 
of body are gone ; I am like the shade of what I was ; 
to write was once my resource and pleasure ; but since 
the only eyes that ever admired my most poor and 
humble production are closed, wherefore should I in- 
dulge the propensity ? God bless you ; I write from my 
heart. You are one like me, who, perhaps, have not 
taken the right road. I am on my death-bed ; say, I 
might have died by a diamond, I die now by a brick-bat ; 
but remember, the only noble fellow I ever met with is 
William Lamb ; he is to me what Shore was to Jane 
Shore. I saw it once ; I am as grateful, but as unhappy. 
Pray excuse the sorrows this sad, strange letter will 
cause you. Could you be in time I would be glad to see 
you — to you alone would I give up Byron's letters — ■ 
much eke, but all like the note you have. Pray excuse 
this being not written as clearly as you can write. I 
speak as I hope you do, from the heart. 

C. L. 



334 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS (1793-1835) 

Felicia Dorothea Browne began to write verse at a very 
early age, and a book of poems from her pen was published 
in her fifteenth year. She married in 1812. Her poems, 
which comprise many volumes, attained great popularity 
during her lifetime in England and America, but, save for 
those printed in Anthologies, are little known to the present 
generation. 



To 

SIR WALTER SCOTT 

Chiefswood, July 20 [1829]. 
Whether I shall return to you all " brighter and 
happier," as your letter so kindly prophesies, I know 
not : but I think there is every prospect of my returning 
more fitful and wilful than ever ; for here I am leading 
my own free native life of the hills again, and if I could 
but bring some of my friends, as the old ballads says, 
" near, near, near me," I should indeed enjoy it ; but 
that strange solitary feeling which I cannot chase away, 
comes over me too often like a dark sudden shadow, 
bringing with it an utter indifference to all things around. 
I lose it most frequently, however, in the excitement of 
Sir Walter Scott's society. And with him I am now in 
constant intercourse, taking long walks over moor and 
woodland, and listening to song and legend of other 
times, until my mind quite forgets itself, and is carried 
wholly back to the days of the Slogan and the fiery 
cross, and the wild gatherings of border chivalry. I 
cannot say enough of his cordial kindness to me ; it 



WALKS WITH SCOTT 335 

makes me feel when at Abbotsford, as if the stately 
rooms of the proud ancestral-looking place, were old 
familiar scenes to me. Yesterday he made a party to 
show me the " pleasant banks of Yarrow," about ten 
miles from hence : I went with him in an open carriage, 
and the day was lovely, smiling upon us with a real blue 
sunny sky, and we passed through I know not how 
many storied spots, and the spirit of the master-mind 
seemed to call up sudden pictures from every knoll and 
cairn as we went by — so vivid were his descriptions of 
the things that had been. The names of some of those 
scenes had, to be sure, rather savage sounds ; such as 
" Slain Man's Lea,'* " Dead Man's Pool," etc., etc. ; but 
I do not know whether these strange titles did not throw 
a deeper interest over woods and waters now so brightly 
peaceful. We passed one meadow on which Sir Walter's 
grandfather had been killed in a duel ; " had it been 
a century earlier," said he, " a bloody feud would have 
been transmitted to me, as Spaniards bequeath a game 
of chess to be finished by their children." And I do 
think, that had he lived in those earlier days, no man 
would have more enjoyed what Sir Lucius O'Trigger is 
pleased to call " a pretty quarrel " ; the whole expression 
of his benevolent countenance changes if he has but to 
speak of the dirk or the claymore : you see the spirit 
that would " say amidst the trumpets, ha ! ha ! " sud- 
denly flashing from his gray eyes, and sometimes, in 
repeating a verse of warlike minstrelsy, he will spring up 
as if he sought the sound of a distant gathering cry. 
But I am forgetting beautiful Yarrow, along the banks 
of which we walked through the Duke of Buccleugh's 
grounds, under old rich patrician trees ; and at every 
turn of our path the mountain stream seemed to assume 



336 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 

a new character, sometimes lying under steep banks 
in dark transparence, sometimes 

crested with tawny foam, 
Like the mane of a chestnut steed. 

And there was Sir Walter beside me, repeating, with a 
tone of feeling as deep as if then only first wakened — 

They sought him east, they sought him west, 
They sought him far with wail and sorrow ; 

There was nothing seen but the coming night. 
And nothing heard but the roar of Yarrow. 

It was all like a dream. Do you remember Words- 
worth's beautiful poem " Yarrow visited " ? I was ready 
to exclaim, in its opening w^ords — " And is this Yarrow^ ? " 
— There was nothing to disturb the deep and often 
solemn loveliness of the scenery : no rose-coloured 
spencers such as persecuted the unhappy Count Forbin 
amidst the pyramids — Mr. Hamilton, and Mrs. Lockhart, 
and the boys, who followed us, were our whole party ; 
and the sight of shepherds, real, not Arcadian shepherds, 
sleeping under their plaids to shelter from the noon-day, 
carried me at once into the heart of a pastoral and 
mountain country. We visited Newark tower, where, 
amongst other objects that awakened many thoughts, 
I found the name of Mungo Park (who was a native 
of the Yarrow vale), which he had inscribed himself, 
shortly before leaving his own bright river never to 
return. We came back to Abbotsford, where we were 
to pass the remainder of the day, partly along the 
Ettrick, and partly through the Tweed ; on the way, we 
were talking of trees, in his love for which Sir Walter 
is a perfect Evelyn. I mentioned to him what I once 
spoke of to you, the different sounds they give forth 



MUSIC AND POETRY 3S7 

to the wind, which he had observed, and he asked me 
if I did not think that an union of music and poetry, 
varying in measure and expression, might in some 
degree imitate or represent those " voices of the trees " ; 
and he described to me some Highland music of a similar 
imitative character, called the " notes of the sea-birds " 
barbaric notes truly they must be ! — In the evening 
we had a good deal of music : he is particularly fond of 
national airs, and I played him many, for which I wish 
you had heard how kindly and gracefully he thanked 
me. But, O ! the bright swords ! I must not forget to 
tell you how I sat, like Minna in " The Pirate " (though 
she stood or moved, I believe), the very " queen of 
swords." I have the strongest love for the flash of 
glittering steel — and Sir Walter brought out I know not 
how many gallant blades to show me ; one which had 
fought at Killicrankie, and one which had belonged to 
the young Prince Henry, James the First's son, and one 
which looked of as noble race and temper as that with 
which Coeur de Lion severed the block of steel in 
Saladin's tent. What a number of things I have yet 
to tell you ! I feel sure that my greatest pleasure from 
all these new objects of interest will arise from talking 
them over with you when I return. . . . 

Ever faithfully yours, 

F. H. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans to 

WORDSWORTH 

Rydal Mount, June 24, 1830. 
I am charmed with Mr. Wordsworth, whose kindness 
to me has quite a soothing influence over my spirits. 
Oh ! what relief, what blessing there is in the feeling of 



33S FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 

admiration, when it can be freely poured forth ! " There 
is a daily beauty in his life," which is in such lovely 
harmony with his poetry, that I am thankful to have 
witnessed and felt it. He gives me a good deal of his 
society, reads to me, walks wdth me, leads my pony 
when I ride, and I begin to talk with him as with a sort 
of paternal friend. The whole of this morning he kindly 
passed in reading to me a great deal from Spenser, and 
afterwards his own " Laodamia," my favourite " Tintern 
Abbey," and many of those noble sonnets which you, 
like myself, enjoy so much. His reading is very peculiar, 
but, to my ear, delightful ; slow, solemn, earnest in 
expression more than any I have ever heard : when he 
reads or recites in the open air, his deep rich tones seem 
to proceed from a spirit-voice, and belong to the religion 
of the place ; they harmonise so fitly with the thrilling 
tones of woods and waterfalls. His expressions are 
often strikingly poetical : "I would not give up the 
mists that spiritualise our mountains for all the blue 
skies of Italy." ■ Yesterday evening he walked beside 
me as I rode on a long and lovely mountain-path high 
above Grasmere Lake. I was much interested by his 
showing me, carved deep into the rock, as we passed, 
the initials of his wife's name, inscribed there many years 
ago by himself, and the dear old man, like " Old 
Mortality," renews them from time to time ; I could 
scarcely help exclaiming Esto perpetua ! . . . 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans to 

PAGANINI 

... To begin with the appearance of the " foreign 
wonder," — it is very different from what the indiscrimi- 



PAGANINI THE MAGICIAN 339 

nating newspaper accounts would lead you to suppose : 
he is certainly singular-looking ; pale, slight, and with 
long, neglected hair ; but I saw nothing whatever of 
that wild fire, that almost ferocious inspiration of mien, 
which has been ascribed to him ; indeed I thought the 
expression of his countenance rather that of good- 
natured and mild enjouement, than of anything else, — 
and his bearing altogether simple and natural. His 
first performance consisted of a tema, with variations, 
from the beautiful Preghiera in " Mose " : here I was 
rather disappointed, but merely because he did not play 
alone. I suppose the performance on the single string 
required the support of other instruments ; but he 
occasionally drew from that string a tone of wailing, 
heart-piercing tenderness, almost too much to be sus- 
tained by any one whose soul can give the full response. 
It was not, however, till his second performance, on all 
the strings, that I could form a full idea of his varied 
magic. A very delicate accompaniment on the piano 
did not in the least interfere with the singleness of effect 
in this instance. The subject was the Venetian air, 
" Come to me when day-light sets " — how shall I give 
you a idea of all the versatility, the play of soul, em- 
bodied in the variations upon that simple air ? Imagine 
a passage of the most fairy-like delicacy, more aerial 
than you would suppose it possible for human touch to 
produce, suddenly succeeded by an absolute parody 
of itself ; t^ie same notes repeated with an expression of 
absolute comic humour, which forced me to laugh, 
however reluctantly — it was as if an old man, the 
" Ancient Mariner " himself, were to sing an impassioned 
Italian air, in a snoring voice, after Pasta. Well, after 
one of these sudden travesties, for I can call them 



340 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 

nothing else, the creature would look all around him, 
with an air of the most delighted bonhomie, exactly 
like a witty child, who has just accomplished a piece of 
successful mischief. The pizzicato passages were also 
wonderful ; the indescribably rapid notes seemed flung 
out in sparks of music, with a triumphant glee which 
conveys the strongest impression I ever received of 
Genius rejoicing over its own bright creations. But I 
vainly wish that my words could impart to you a full 
conception of this wizard-like music. 

There was nothing else of particular interest in the 
evening's performance ; — a good deal of silvery warbling 
from Stockhausen, but I never find it leave any more 
vivid remembrance on my mind than the singing of 
birds. I am wrong, however, — I must except one 
thing, "Napoleon's Midnight Review," — the music of 
which, by Neukomm, I thought superb. The words are 
translated from the German : they describe the hollow 
sound of a drum at midnight, and the peal of a ghostly 
trumpet arousing the dead hosts of Napoleon from their 
sleep under the northern snows, and along the Egyptian 
sands, and in the sunny fields of Italy. Then another 
trumpet-blast, and the chief himself arises, " with his 
martial cloak around him," to review the whole army ; 
and thus it concludes — " the password given is — France ; 
the answer — St. Helena." The music, which is of a very 
wild, supernatural character, a good deal in Weber's 
incantation style, accords well with this grand idea ; 
the single trumpet, followed by a long, rolling, ominous 
sound from the double-drum made me quite thrill with 
indefinable feelings. Braham's singing was not equal 
to the instrumental part, but he did not disfigure it by 
his customary and vulgarising graces. ... I enclose 



"MUSIC LAND" 341 

you a programme of the concert at which I again heard 
this triumphant music last night. It is impossible for 
me to describe how much of intense feeling its full- 
swelling, dreamy tones awoke within me. His second 
performance (the Adagio a doppie corde) made me 
imagine that I was then first wakening in what a German 
would call the "music land." Its predominant expression 
was that of overpowering, passionate regret ; such, at 
least, was the dying languor of the long sostenuto notes, 
that it seemed as if the musician was himself about to 
let fall his instrument, and sink under the mastery of 
his own emotion. It reminded me, by some secret and 
strange analogy, of a statue I once described to you, 
representing Sappho about to drop her lyre in utter 
desolation of heart. This was immediately followed 
by the rapid flashing music — for the strings were as if 
they sent out lightning in their glee — of the most joyous 
rondo by Kreutzer you can imagine. The last piece, the 
" Dance of the Witches," is a complete exemplification 
of the grotesque in music — some parts of it imitate the 
quavering, garrulous voices of very old women, half 
scolding, half complaining — and then would come a 
burst of wild, fantastic, half -fearful gladness. I think 
Burns's " Tam O'Shanter " (not Mr. Thom's — by way of 
contrast to Sappho) something of a parallel in poetry 
to this strange production in music. I saw more of 
Paganini's countenance last night, and was still more 
pleased with it than before ; the original mould in which 
it has been cast is of a decidedly fine and intellectual 
character, though the features are so worn by the 
wasting fire which appears his vital element. ... I 
did not hear Paganini again after the performance I 
described to you, but I received a very eloquent descrip- 



342 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 

tion from of a subsequent triumph of his genius. 

It v/as a concerto, of a dramatic character, and intended, 
as I was told, to embody the little tale of a wanderer 
sinking to sleep in a solitary place at midnight. He is 
supposed to be visited by a solemn and impressive vision, 
imagined in music of the most thrilling style. Then, 
after all his lonely fears and wild fantasies, the day- 
spring breaks upon him in a triumphant rondo, and all 
is joy and gladness. . . . 

. . . related to me a most interesting con- 
versation he had held with Paganini in a private circle. 
The latter was describing to him the sufferings (do you 
remember a line of Bryon's, 

The starry Galileo, with his woes ?) 

by which he pays for his consummate excellence. He 
scarcely knows what sleep is, and his nerves are wrought 
to such almost preternatural acuteness, that harsh, even 
common sounds, are often torture to him : he is some- 
times unable to bear a whisper in his room. His passion 
for music he described as an all-absorbing, a consuming 
one ; in fact, he looks as if no other life than that ethereal 
one of melody were circulating within his veins : but he 
added, with a glow of triumph kindling through deep 
sadness, " Mais c'est un don du del/" I heard all this, 
which was no more than I had fully imagined, with a 
still deepening conviction that it is the gifted beyond 
all others — those whom the multitude believe to be 
rejoicing in their own fame, strong in their own resources 
—who have most need of true hearts to rest upon, and 
of hope in God to support them." . . . 



THE CONCERTO 343 

JOANNA BAILLIE (1762-1851) 

POETESS, was the daughter of a Professor of Divinity in 
Glasgow. At the age of 44, in 1806, she settled, with her 
sister Agnes, at Hampstead, where she remained until her 
death. Her nine Plays on the Passions are considered 
her greatest achievement ; she wrote a tragedy entitled 
De Montfort, which was produced at Drury Lane, Mrs. 
Siddons and Kemble playing the leading parts. Miss Baillie 
was a general favourite and won the admiration of all her 
literary friends, amongst whom was Sir Walter Scott, a great 
admirer of her beautiful ballads. 



To Samuel Rogers ^ 

FRIENDLY CRITICISM 

Hampstead, Friday, February 2 [1832]. 
My dear Mr. Rogers, — You once called me, and not 
very long ago, an ungrateful hussey, and I remember 
it the better because I really thought I deserved it. 
But whether I did or not, when I tell you now that 
I have read Sir John Herschell's book twice, or rather 
three times over, have been the better for it both in 
understanding and heart, and mean to read parts of 
it again ere long, you will not repent having bestowed 
it upon me. And now I mean to thank you for another 
obligation that you are not so well aware of. Do you 
remember when I told you, a good while since, of my 
intention of looking over all my works to correct them 
for an edition to be published after my decease, should 

^ This letter is reprinted from Mr. P. W. Clayden's " Rogers 
and his Contemporaries," by kind permission of Messrs. Smith, 
Elder & Co. 



344 JOANNA BAILLIE 

it be called for, and you giving me a hint never to let a 
which stand where a that might serve the purpose, to 
prefer the words while to whilst, among to amongst, etc. ? 
I acquiesced in all this most readily, throwing as much 
scorn upon the rejected expressions as anybody would 
do, and with all the ease of one who from natural taste 
had always avoided them. If you do, you will guess 
what has been my surprise and mortification to find 
through whole pages of even my last dramas, " whiches," 
" whilsts " and " amongsts," etc., where they need not 
have been, in abundance. Well, 1 have profited by 
your hint, though I was not aware that I needed it at 
the time when it was given, and now I thank you for 
it very sincerely. I cannot imagine how I came to 
make this mistake, if it had not been that, in writing 
songs, I have often rejected the words in question be- 
cause they do not sound well in singing. I have 
very lately finished my corrections, and now all my 
literary tasks are finished. It is time they should, 
and more serious thoughts fill up their room, or ought 
to do. 

I hear of your sister from time to time by our neigh- 
bours here, and of yourself now and then. I hope you 
continue to have this variable winter with impunity. 
We also hear that your nephew continues to recover, 
though more slowly than his friends could wish. Being 
so young a man gives one confidence in the progress he 
makes. My sister and I are both confined to the house, 
but with no very great ailments to complain of. We 
both unite in all kind wishes and regards to you and 
Miss Rogers. 

Very truly and gratefully yours, 

J. Baillie. 



THE FUTURE OF WOMEN 345 

HARRIET MARTINEAU (1802-1876) 

BORN at Norwich, she began her Uterary career in 1821 
with an article for the Monthly Repository, and some short 
stories. By 1832 she had an assured position as a writer 
on poUtical economy, novels, and stories for children ; but 
her most ambitious work was the " History of England 
during the Thirty Years Peace, 1816-46." Miss Martineau 
contributed to The Daily News from 1852-66, and to other 
papers and periodicals. She was democratic in her opinions 
and a believer in the intellectual powers of her own sex. 
She died at Ambleside, where she resided for many years. 



To Mrs. Chapman ^ 

THE FUTURE OF WOMEN 

Dear Friend, — I have seen Garrison ; and among all 
the pleasures of this meeting I seem to have been brought 
nearer to you. If I were well and had health, and if 
my mother's life were not so fast bound down to mine 
as it is, I think I could not help coming to live beside 
you. Great ifs and many of them. But I dream of 
a life devoted to you and your cause, and the very 
dream is cheering. I have not been out of these rooms 
for months, and now I begin to doubt whether I shall 
ever again step across their threshold. I may go 
on just as I am, for years, and it may end any day ; 
yet I am not worse than when I last wrote. 

We had a happy day, we four, when Garrison was 
here. I am sure he was happy. How gay he is ! He 
left us with a new life in us. 

1 Reprinted from Harriet Martineau's " Autobiography," by 
the kind permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. 



346 HARRIET MARTINEAU 

Garrison was quite right, I think, to sit in the gallery 
at Convention. I conclude you think so. It has 
done much for the woman question, I am persuaded. 
You will live to see a great enlargement of our scope, 
I trust ; but what with the vices of some women and 
the fears of others, it is hard work for us to assert our 
liberty. I will, however, till I die, and so will you, 
and so make it easier for some few to follow us than 
it was for poor Mary WoUstonecraft to begin. . . . 

Believe me ever your faithful and affectionate 

Harriet Martineau. 



SARA COLERIDGE (1802-1852) 

THE only daughter of Samuel Taylor Coleridge ; she married, 
in 1829, her cousin, Henry Nelson Coleridge. Her works 
consist of an essay on " Rationalism," an Introduction to 
her father's " Biographia Literaria," also a fairy tale " Phan- 
tasmion," and " Pretty Lessons for Good Children," 



To her Husband^ 
A mother's portrait 

Nab Cottage, Grasmere [1833]. 
.... You say you cannot bring before your mind's 
eye our little Herby. A mother is qualified to draw 
a child's portrait, if close study of the original be a 
qualification. High colouring may be allowed for. I 
will try to give you some notion of our child. He 

^ The following letters of Mrs. Coleridge are reprinted, from her 
Memoirs and Letters, edited by her daughter, by permission ol 
Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Triibner & Co., Ltd. 



ROSE-COLOURED SPECTACLES 347 

is too even a mixture of both father and mother to be 
strikingly like either ; and this is the more natural, as 
Henry and I have features less definite than our ex- 
pressions. This may, perhaps, account for the flowing 
softness and more than childlike indefiniteness of 
outline which our boy's face presents ; it is all colour 
and expression — such varying expression as consists 
with the sort of corporeal moulding which I have 
described, in which the vehicle is lost sight of, and the 
material of the veil is obscured by the brightness of 
what shines through it — not that pointed sort of fixed 
expression which seems more mechanically formed 
by strong lines and angular features. To be more 
particular, he has round eyes, and a round nose, and 
round lips and cheeks ; and he has deep blue eyes, 
which vary from stone-grey to skiey azure, according 
to influences of light and shade ; and yellowish light- 
brown hair, and cheeks and lips rosy up to the very 
deepest, brightest tint of childish rosyhood. He 
will not be a handsome man, but he is a pretty repre- 
sentative of three years old, as D was a " repre- 
sentative baby; " and folks who put the glossy side of 
their opinions outermost for the gratified eyes of mothers 
and nurses, and all that large class with whom rosy 
cheeks are beginning, middle, and end of beauty say 
enough to make me — as vain as I am. I don't pretend 
to any exemption from the general lot of parental 
delusion : I mean that, like most other parents, I see 
my child through an atmosphere which illuminates, 
magnifies, and at the same time refines the object to 
a degree that amounts to a delusion, at least, unless 
we are aware that to other eyes it appears by the light 
of common day only. My father says that those who 



348 SARA COLERIDGE 

love intensely see more clearly than indifferent persons ; 
they see minutenesses which escape other eyes ; they 
see " the very pulse of the machine." Doubtless ; 
but then, don't they magnify them by looking through 
the medium of their own partiality ? Don't they raise 
into undue relative importance by exclusive gazing ; 
don't wishes and hopes, indulged and cherished long, 
turn into realities, as the rapt astronomer gazed upon 
the stars, and mused on human knowledge, and longed 
for magic power, till he believed that he directed the 
sun's course and the sweet influences of the Pleiades ? 
To return to our son and heir ; he is an impetuous, 
vivacious child, and the softer moments of such are 
particularly touching (so thinks the mother of a ve- 
hement urchin). I lately asked him the meaning of 
a word ; he turned his rosy face to the window, and 
cast up the full blue eyes, which looked liquid in the 
light, in the short hush of childish contemplation. 
The innocent though tfulness, contrasted with his usual 
noisy mirth and rapidity, struck my fancy. I had 
never before seen him condescend to make an effort 
at recollection. The word usually passed from his 
lips like an arrow from a bow ; and if not forthcoming 
instantly there was an absolute unconcern as to its 
fate in the region of memory. The necessity of brain- 
racking is not among the number of his discoveries in 
the (to him) new world. All wears the freshness and 
the glory of a dream ; and the stale, flat, and unprofit- 
able, and the improbus labor, and the sadness and 
despondency, are all behind that visionary haze which 
hides the dull reality, the mournful future of man's 
life. You may well suppose that I look on our darling 
boy with many fears; but "fortitude and patient 



A WOMAN'S RECREATIONS 349 

cheer " must recall me from such " industrious folly," 
and faith and piety must tell me that this is not to be 
his home for ever, and that the glories of this world 
are lent but to spiritualise us to incite us to look up- 
ward ; and that the trials which I dread for my darling 
are but part of his Maker's general scheme of goodness 
and wisdom. 



Sara Coleridge to her Eldest Brother 

WOMEN AND BOOKS 

January 1840. 

I have a strong opinion that a genuine love of books 

is one of the greatest blessings of life for man and 

woman, and I cannot help thinking that by persons 

in our middle station it may be enjoyed (more at one 

time, less at another, but certainly during the course 

of life to a great extent enjoyed) without neglect of 

any duty. A woman may house-keep if she chooses, 

from morning to night, or she may be constantly at 

her needle, or she may be always either receiving or 

preparing for company ; but whatever those who practise 

these things may say, it is not necessary in most cases 

for a woman to spend her whole time in this manner. 

Now I cannot but think that the knowledge of the 

ancient languages very greatly enchances the pleasure 

taken in literature — that it gives depth and variety 

to reading, and makes almost every book, in whatever 

language, more thoroughly understood. I observe 

that music and drawing are seldom pursued after 

marriage. In many cases of weak health they cannot 

be pursued, and they do not tell in the intercourse 

of society and in conversation as this sort of informa- 



350 JANE WELSH CARLYLS 

tion does, even when not a word of Greek or Latin is 
either uttered or alluded to. 



JANE WELSH CARLYLE (1801-1866) 

HEIRESS and only daughter of Dr. John Welsh, she was 
known as " The Flower of Haddington," and in 1826 
became the wife of Thomas Carlyle. Mrs. Carlyle possessed 
a keen intellect, and was undoubtedly of the greatest help to 
her husband, who always sought her advice in connection 
with his literary work. Her tragically sudden death occurred 
whilst driving in the Park. 



To Mrs. Thomas Carlyle, sen. 1 

NEW FASHIONS 

Chelsea, November 1834. 
. . . The weather is grown horribly cold, and I am 
chiefly intent, at present, on getting my winter wardrobe 
into order. I have made up the old black gown (which 
was dyed puce for me at Dumfries) with my own 
hands ; it looks twenty per cent, better than when it 
was new ; and I shall get no other this winter. I am 
now turning my pelisse. I went yesterday to a milliner's 
to buy a bonnet ; an old, very ugly lady, upwards of 
seventy, I am sure, was bargaining about a cloak at 
the same place ; it was a fine affair of satin and velvet ; 
but she declared repeatedly that " it had no air," and for 
her part she could not put on such a thing. My bonnet, 
I flatter mj^self , has an air ; a little brown feather nods 

1 The following letters of Mrs. Carlyle are reprinted from her 
Correspondence by kind permission of Mr. Alexander Carlyle and 
of Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co. 




JANK BAILLIE WELSH 
(MRS. CARLYLE) 

From (he minialiire by Kenneth Macleay (painted in July 1826), 
by permission of Mr. Alexander Carlyle 

P- 350] 



FASHIONS BELOW-STAIRS 351 

over the front of it, and the crown points Hke a sugar- 
loaf ! The diameter of the fashionable ladies at present 
is about three yards ; their bustles are the size of an 
ordinary sheep's fleece. The very servant-girls wear 
bustles ! Eliza Miles told me a maid of theirs went 
out one Sunday mth three kitchen dusters pinned on 
as a substitute. . . . 



Jane Welsh Carlyle to Thomas Carlyle 

A poet's privileges 

Chelsea, October 12, 1835. 
. . . Mother and I have fallen naturally into a fair 
division of labour, and we keep a very tidy house. 
Sereetha has attained the unhoped-for perfection of 
getting up at half after six of her own accord, lighting 
the parlour fire, and actually placing the breakfast 
things {nil desperandum me duce !). I get up at half 
after seven, and prepare the coffee and bacon-ham 
(which is the life of me, making me always hungrier 
the more I eat of it). Mother, in the interim, makes 
her bed and sorts her room. After breakfast, mother 
descends to the inferno, where she jingles and scours, 
and from time to time scolds Sereetha till all is right 
and tight there. I, above stairs, sweep the parlour, 
blacken the grate — make the room look cleaner than 
it has been since the days of Grace Macdonald ^ ; then 
mount aloft to make my own bed (for I was resolved 
to enjoy the privilege of having a bed of my own) ; 
then clean myself (as the servants say), and sit down 
to the Italian lesson. A bit of meat roasted at the oven 
1 A former servant. 



35^ jANiE WELSH CARLYLE 

suffices two days cold, and does not plague us with 
cookery. Sereetha can fetch up tea-things, and the 
porridge is easily made on the parlour-fire ; the kitchen 
one being allowed to go out (for economy), when the 
Peesweep ^ retires to bed at eight o'clock. . . . Our 
visiting has been confined to one dinner and two teas 
at the Sterlings', and a tea at [Leigh] Hunt's. You 

must know, came the day after you went, and stayed 

two days. As she desired above all things to see Hunt, 
I wrote him a note, asking if I might bring her up to 
call. He replied he was just setting off to town, but 
would look in at eight o'clock. I supposed this, as 
usual, a mere off-put ; but he actually came — found 

Pepoli as well as Miss , was amazingly lively, and 

very lasting, for he stayed till near twelve. Between 
ourselves, it gave me a poorish opinion of him, to see 

how uplifted to the third heaven he seemed by 's 

compliments and sympathising talk. He asked us all, 

with enthusiasm, to tea the following Monday. Came 

on purpose, and slept here. He sang, talked like a 

pen-gun, ever to , who drank it all in like nectar, 

while my mother looked cross enough, and I had to listen 
to the whispered confidences of Mrs. Hunt. But for 
me, who was declared to be grown " quite prim and 
elderly," I believe they would have communicated 
their mutual experiences in a retired window-seat till 

morning. "God bless you. Miss ," was repeated 

by Hunt three several times in tones of ever-increasing 
pathos and tenderness, as he handed her downstairs 

behind me. , for once in her life, seemed past 

speech. At the bottom of the stairs a demur took place. 
I saw nothing ; but I heard, with my wonted glegness — 
1 Peewit. 



TEA AT LEIGH HUNT'S 353 

what think you ? — a couple of handsome smacks ! 
and then an ahnost inaudibly soft " God bless you. 
Miss ! " 

Now just remember what sort of looking woman is 

; and figure their transaction ! If he had kissed 

me, it would have been intelligible, but — — , of all 
people ! . . . 

You will come back strong and cheerful, will you 
not ? I wish you were come anyhow. Don't take 
much castor ; eat plenty of chicken broth rather. 
Dispense my love largely. Mother returns your kiss 
with interest. We go on tolerably enough ; but she 
has vowed to hate all my people except Pepoli. So 
that there is ever a " dark brown shadd " in all my 
little reunions. She has given me a glorious black 
velvet gown, realising my beau ideal of Putz ! 

Did you take away my folding penknife ? We are 
knifeless here. We were to have gone to Richmond 
to-day with the Silver-headed, but to my great relief, 
it turned out that the steamboat is not running. 

God keep you, my own dear husband, and bring 
you safe back to me. The house looks very empty 
without you, and my mind feels empty too. 

Your Jane. 



Jane Welsh Carlyle to Thomas Carlyle 

THE DELAYED LETTER 

Seaforth, Tuesday, July 14, 1846. 
Oh ! my dear Husband, Fortune has played me such 
a cruel trick this day ! But it is all right now ; and I 
do not even feel any resentment against Fortune for the 

23 



354 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 

suffocating misery of the last two hours. I know always, 
even when I seem to you most exacting, that whatever 
happens to me is nothing like so bad as I deserve. But 
you shall hear all how it was. 

. , . Not a line from you on my Birthday — on 
the fifth day ! I did not burst out crying — did not 
faint — did not do anything absurd, so far as I know, 
but I walked back again, without speaking a word ; 
and with such a tumult of wretchedness in my heart 
as you who know me can conceive. And then I 
shut myself in my own room to fancy everything 
that was most tormenting. Were you, finally, so 
out of patience with me that you had resolved to 
write to me no more at all ? Had you gone to Addis- 
combe, and found no leisure there to remember my 
existence ? Were you taken ill, so ill that you could 
not write ? That last idea made me mad to get off 
to the railway, and back to London. Oh, mercy ! 
what a two hours I had of it ! And just when I 
was at my wit's end, I heard Julia crying out 
thro' the house : " Mrs. Carlyle, Mrs. Carlyle ! are 
you there ? Here is a letter for you ! " And so 
there was after all ! The post-mistress had over- 
looked it, and given it to Robert, when he went 
afterwards, not knowing that we had been. I 
wonder what Love-letter was ever received with such 
thankfulness ! Oh, my Dear ! I am not fit for living 
in the world with this organisation. I am as much 
broken to pieces by that little accident as if I had 
come thro' an attack of cholera or typhus fever. I 
cannot even steady my hand to write decently. But 
I felt an irresistible need of thanking you, by return 
of post. Yes, I have kissed the dear little Card-case ; 



THE SILK JACKET 355 

and now I will lie down a while, and try to get some 
sleep, at least to quieten myself. I will try to believe 
— oh, why cannot I believe it, once for all — that, with 
all my faults and follies, I am " dearer to you than 
any earthly creature ! " I will be better for Geraldine 
here ; she is become very quiet and nice, and as 
affectionate for me as ever. 

Your own 

Jane Carlyle. 

Jane Welsh Carlyle to Mrs. Russell 

HOME DRESSMAKING 
5, Cheyne Row, Chelsea, Friday, January 28, i860. 
Dearest Mary — A letter from me would have crossed 
yours (with the book) on the road, if it hadn't been 
for a jacket ! Things are so oddly hooked together 
in this world. The connection in this case is simple 
enough. I needed a little jacket for home wear, and 
possessing a superfluous black silk scarf, I resolved, 
in a moment of economical enthusiasm, to make with 
my own hands a jacket out of it. For in spite of the 
" thirty thousand distressed needlewomen " one hears 
so much of, the fact remains that nobody can get a 
decent article of dress made here, unless at enormous 
cost. And besides, the dressmakers who can fit one 
won't condescend to make anything but mth their 
own materials. So I fell to cutting out that jacket 
last Monday, and only finished it to-day (Friday) ! 
and was so much excited over the unusual nature of 
the enterprise (for I detest sewing, and don't sew 
for weeks together) that I could not leave off, for 
anything that could be postponed, till the jacket was 



356 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 

out of hands. But, Lord preserve me, what a bother ; 
better to have bought one ready-made at the dearest 
rate. I won't take a needle in my hands, except to sew 
on Mr. C.'s buttons, for the next six months. By the 
way, would you like the shape of my jacket, which 
is of the newest ? I have it on paper, and could send it 
to you quite handy. 

Oh, my dear, I am very much afraid the reading of 
that book will be. an even more uncongenial job of work 
for me than the jacket, and won't have as much to show 
for itself when done. If there be one thing I dislike 
more than theology it is geology. And here we have 
both, beaten up in the same mortar, and incapable, 
by any amount of beating, to coalesce. What could 
induce any live woman to fall a-writing that sort of 
book ? And a decidedly clever woman — I can see 
that much from the little I have already read of it 
here and there. She expresses her meaning very 
clearly and elegantly too. If it were only on any 
subject I could get up an interest in, I should read 
her writing with pleasure. But even when Darwin, 
in a book that all the scientific world is in ecstasy over, 
proved the other day that we are all come from shell- 
fish, it didn't move me to the slightest curiosity whether 
we are or not. I did not feel that the slightest light 
would be thrown on my practical life for me, by having 
it ever so logically made out that my first ancestor, 
millions of millions of ages back, had been, or even 
had not been, an oyster. It remained a plain fact 
that / was no oyster, nor had no grandfather oyster 
within my knowledge : and for the rest, there was 
nothing to be gained, for this world, or the next, by 
going into the oyster-question, till all more -pressing 



THEOLOGY AND GEOLOGY 357 

questions were exhausted ! So — if I can't read Darwin, 
it may be feared I shall break down in Mrs. Duncan. 
Thanks to you, however, for the book, which will be 
welcome to several of my acquaintances. There is 
quite a mania for geology at present, in the female 
mind. My next-door neighbour would prefer a book 
like Mrs. Duncan's to Homer's " Iliad " or Milton's 
" Paradise Lost." There is no accounting for tastes. 

I have done my visit to the Grange and got no hurt 
by it ; and it was quite pleasant while it lasted. The 
weather was mild, and besides, the house is so completely 
warmed, with warm-water pipes, that it is like summer 
there in the coldest weather. The house was choke-ful 
of visitors — four-and-twenty of us, most of the time. 
And the toilettes ! Nothing could exceed their mag- 
nificence ; for there were four young, new-married 
ladies, among the rest, all vieing with each other who to 
be finest. The blaze of diamonds, every day at dinner, 
quite took the shine out of the chandeliers. As for 
myself, I got through the dressing-part of the business 
by a sort of continuous miracle, and after the first day, 
had no bother with myself of any sort. The Lady 
was kindness' self and gave general satisfaction. 
Affectionately yours, 

Jane Carlyle. 



COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON (1789-1849) 

DAUGHTER of Edward Power, an Irish squire ; in 181 7 she 
married the Earl of Blessington. Her rank, beauty, and 
accomplishments soon made her the centre of a brilliant 
circle, both on the Continent, where she toured with her 



358 COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON 

husband, or at Gore House, where she lavishly entertained 
her friends. While abroad she met and became a friend of 
Byron, and later wrote her recollections in the work " Con- 
versations with Lord Byron." After her husband's death 
she wrote novels, edited the Annual, " Book of Beauty," and 
made a large income from their proceeds. Her extravagance 
obliged her to leave Gore House, and in 1849 she settled in 
Paris, where she died the same year. 



To Walter Savage Landor 

FRIENDSHIP 

Thursday Evening [1835]. 
I send you the engraving, and have only to wish 
that it may sometimes remind you of the original. 
You are associated in. my memory with some of my 
happiest days ; you were the friend, and the highly 
valued friend, of my dear and lamented husband, 
and as such, even without any of the numberless claims 
you have to my regard, you could not be otherwise than 
highly esteemed. If appears to me that I have not 
quite lost him who made life dear to me, when I am 
near those he loved, and that knew how to value him. 
Five fleeting years have gone by since our delicious 
evenings on the lovely Arno, evenings never to be 
forgotten, and the recollections of which ought to 
cement the friendships then formed. This effect, I 
can in truth say, has been produced on me, and I 
look forward, with confidence, to keeping alive, by a 
frequent correspondence, the friendship you owe me, 
no less for that I feel for you, but as the widow of on^ 
you loved, and that truly loved you. We, or, more 
properly speaking, I, live in a world where friendship is 



PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP 359 

little known ; and were it not for one or two individuals 
like yourself I might be tempted to exclaim with Socrates, 
"My friends; there are no friends!" Let us prove 
that the philosopher was wrong, and if Fate has denied 
the comfort of meeting, let us by letters keep up our 
friendly intercourse. You will tell me what you think 
and feel in your Tuscan retirement, and I will tell you 
what I do, in this modern Babylon, where thinking 
and feeling are almost unknown. Have I not reason 
to complain, that in your sojourn in London you did 
not give me a single day ? And yet methinks you 
promised to stay a week, and that of that week I should 
have my share. I rely on your promise of coming to 
see me again before you leave London, and I console 
myself for the disappointment of seeing so little of you, 
by recollecting the welcome and the happiness that 
wait you at home. Long may you enjoy it, is the 
sincere wish of your attached friend. 

P.S, — I shall be glad to hear what you think of the 
M. Blessington "Conversations." I could have made 
them better, but they would no longer have been, as 
they now are, genuine. 



ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL (1810-1865) 

WAS born at Chelsea, the daughter of a Mr. Stevenson. She 
spent her early years at Knutsford (the original of her Cran- 
ford). At the age of twenty- two she married William 
Gaskell, a Unitarian minister at Manchester, and in 1848 
she began her literary career with the publication of her 
story, " Mary Barton," which was rapidly followed by her 
other well-known novels, and in 1857 her famous biography 
of Charlotte Bronte. 



36o ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 
To a Friend 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE AT HAWORTH 

[September 1853.] 
It was a dull, drizzly, Indian-inky day all the way 
on the railroad to Keighley, which is a rising wool- 
manufacturing town, lying in a hollow between hills — 
not a pretty hollow, but more what the Yorkshire people 
call a "bottom," or " botham." I left Keighley in a 
car for Haworth, four miles off — four tough, steep, 
scrambling miles, the road winding between the wave- 
like hills that rose and fell on every side of the horizon, 
with a long, illimitable, sinuous look, as if they were 
a part of the line of the Great Serpent which the Norse 
legend says girdles the world. The day was lead- 
coloured ; the road had stone factories alongside of it ; 
grey, dull-coloured rows of stone cottages belonging to 
these factories ; and then we came to poor, hungry- 
looking fields — stone fences everywhere, and trees no- 
where. Haworth is a long, straggling village : one 
steep narrow street — so steep that the flagstones with 
which it is paved are placed endways, that the horses' 
feet may have something to cling to, and not slip down 
backwards, which if they did they would soon reach 
Keighley. But if the horses had cats' feet and claws 
they would do all the better. Well, we (the man, horse, 
car, and I) clambered up this street, and reached the 
church dedicated to St. Antes t (who was he ?) ; then 
we turned off into a lane on the left, past the curate's 
lodging at the sexton's, past the schoolhouse, up to the 
Parsonage yard-door. I went round the house to the 
front door, looking to the church ; — moors everywhere, 
beyond and above. The crowded graveyard surrounds 



LIFE AT HAWORTH 361 

the house and small grass enclosure for drying 
clothes. 

I don't know that I ever saw a spot more exquisitely 
clean ; the most dainty place for that I ever saw. To 
be sure the life is like clockwork. No one comes to the 
house ; nothing disturbs the deep repose ; hardly a 
voice is heard ; you catch the ticking of the clock in 
the kitchen, or the buzzing of a fly in the parlour, all 
over the house. Miss Bronte sits alone in her parlour, 
breakfasting with her father in his study at nine o'clock. 
She helps in the housework ; for one of their servants 
(Tabby) is nearly ninety, and the other only a girl. Then 
I accompanied her in her walks on the sweeping moors : 
the heather bloom had been blighted by a thunderstorm 
a day or two before, and v/as all of a livid brown colour, 
instead of the blaze of purple glory it ought to have 
been. Oh ! those high, wild, desolate moors, up above 
the whole world, and the very realms of silence ! Home 
to dinner at two. Mr. Bronte has his dinner sent into 
him. All the small table arrangements had the same 
dainty simplicity about them. Then we rested, and 
talked over the clear, bright fire; it is a cold country, 
and the fires gave a pretty warm, dancing light all over 
the house. The parlour has been evidently refurnished 
within the last few years, since Miss Bronte's success has 
enabled her to have a little more money to spend. 
Everything fits into, and is in harmony with, the idea 
of a country parsonage, possessed by people of very 
moderate means. The prevailing colour of the room is 
crimson, to make a warm setting for the cold grey land- 
scape without. There is her likeness by Richmond, and 
an engraving from Lawrence's picture of Thackeray ; 
and two recesses, on each side of the high, narrow, old- 



362 ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 

fashioned mantelpiece, filled %vith books — books given 
to her, books she has bought, and which tell of her 
individual pursuits and tastes ; not standard books. 

She cannot see well, and does little beside knitting. 
The way she weakened her eyesight was this : When 
she was sixteen or seventeen, she wanted much to draw ; 
and she copied niminipimini copper-plate engravings 
out of annuals (" stippling," don't the artists call it ?), 
every little point put in, till at the end of six months 
she had produced an exquisitely faithful copy of the 
engraving. She wanted to learn to express her ideas 
by drawing. After she had tried to draw stories, and 
not succeeded, she took the better mode of \\'Titing, 
but in so small a hand that it is almost impossible to 
decipher what she wrote at this time. 

But now to return to our quiet hour of rest after 
dinner. I soon observed that her habits of order were 
such that she could not go on with the conversation if 
a chair was out of its place ; everything was arranged 
with delicate regularity. We talked over the old times 
of her childhood ; of her elder sister's (Maria's) death — - 
just like that of Helen Burns in " Jane Eyre " — of the 
desire (almost amounting to illness) of expressing herself in 
some way, writing or drawing ; of her weakened eyesight, 
which prevented her doing anything for two years, from 
the age of seventeen to nineteen ; of her being a 
governess ; of her going to Brussels ; whereupon I 
said I disliked Lucy Snowe, and we discussed M. Paul 

Emanuel ; and I told her of 's admiration of 

" Shirley," which pleased her, for the character of Shirley 
was meant for her sister Emily, about whom she is never 
tired of talking, nor I of listening. Emily must have 
been a remnant of the Titans, great-granddaughter of 



EMILY BRONTE'S DOG 363 

the giants who used to inhabit the earth. One day Miss 
Bronte brought down a rough, common-looking oil 
painting, done by her brother, of herself — a little, rather 
prim-looking girl of eighteen — and two other sisters, 
girls of sixteen and fourteen, with cropped hair, and sad, 
dreamy-looking eyes. . . . Emily had a great dog — 
half mastiff, half bulldog — so savage, etc. . . . This 
dog went to her funeral, walking side by side with her 
father ; and then, to the day of its death, it slept at her 
room door, snuffing under it, and whining every morning. 
We have generally had another walk before tea, which 
is at six ; at half-past eight prayers ; and by nine all 
the household are in bed, except ourselves. We sit 
up together till ten, or past ; and after I go I hear Miss 
Bronte come down and walk up and down the room 
for an hour or so. 

E. C. Gaskell. 



LUCIE, LADY DUFF-GORDON (1821-1869) 

WAS the only child of John Austin and of Sarah Austin. 
She married in 1840 Sir Alexander Duff-Gordon ; and 
occupied herself by translating from the French and German. 
Her health failing, she visited the Cape of Good Hope in 186 1-2 ; 
and she afterwards went to Egypt, where she died at Cairo. 
Her letters from the Cape and from Egypt were afterwards 
published, some of them during her lifetime. 



AN EASTERN CEREMONY 

Friday, January 22 [1864]. 
Yesterday I rode over to Karnac with Mustafa's 
Sais running by my side ; glorious hot sun and delicious 



364 LADY DUFF-GORDON 

air. To hear the Sais chatter away, his tongue running 
as fast as his feet, made me deeply envious of his lungs. 
Mustafa joined me, and pressed me to go to visit the 
Sheykh's tomb for the benefit of my health, as he and 
Sheykh Yoosuf wished to say a Fat'hah for me ; but 
I must not drink wine that day. I made a little diffi- 
culty on the score of difference of religion, but Sheykh 
Yoosuf, who came up, said he presumed I worshipped 
God and not stones, and that sincere prayers were good 
anywhere. Clearly the bigotry would have been on my 
side if I had refused any longer, so in the evening I went 
with Mustafa. 

It was a very curious sight : the little dome illu- 
minated with as much oil as the mosque could afford, 
over the tombs of Abu-1-Hajjaj and his three sons. A 
magnificent old man, like Father Abraham himself, 
dressed in white sat on a carpet at the foot of the tomb ; 
he was the head of the family of Abu-1-Hajjaj. He 
made me sit by him and was extremely polite. Then 
came the Nazir, the Hadee, a Turk travelling on govern- 
ment business, and a few other gentlemen, who all sat 
down after us, after kissing the hand of the old Sheykh. 
Every one talked ; in fact, it was a soiree in honour of 
the dead sheykh. A party of men sat at the farther 
end of the place, with their faces to the kibleh, and 
played on a darabukheh (sort of small drum stretched 
over an earthenware funnel, which gives a peculiar 
sound), a tambourine without bells, and little tinkling 
cymbals (seggal) fitting on thumb and finger (crotales), 
and chanted songs in honour of Mohammad, and verses 
from the Psalms of David. Every now and then, one 
of our party left off talking, or prayed a little and 
counted his beads. The old sheykh sent for coffee and 



EASTERN MUSIC 365 

gave me the first cup — a wonderful concession ; at 
last the Nazir proposed a Fat'hah for me, which the 
whole group around me repeated aloud, and then each 
said to me: "Our Lord God bless thee, and give thee 
health and peace, to thee and thy family, and take thee 
back safe to thy master and thy children " ; every one 
adding " Ameen " and giving the salam with the hand. 
I returned it, and said, " Our Lord reward thee and all 
people of kindness to strangers," which was considered 
a very proper answer. 

After that we went away and the worthy Nazir 
walked home with me to take a pipe and a glass of 
sherbert and eight children, who are all in Fum-el-Bahr, 
except two boys at school in Cairo. ... I ought to add 
that in Cairo, or Lower Egypt, it would be quite im- 
possible for a Christian to enter a sheykh's tomb at all 
— above all on his birthday festival, and on the night 
of Friday. 



Lady Ditff-Govdon to - 

ON ILLUSTRATING 



March 7, 1864. 
We have now settled into quite warm weather ways ; 
no more going out at midday. It is now broiling, and 
I have been watching eight tall blacks swimming and 
capering about, with their skins shining like otters' fur 
when wet. They belong to a Gellab, a slave-dealer's 
boat, I see. The beautiful thing is to see men and boys 
at work among the green corn. In the sun their brown 
skins look like dark clouded amber — semi-transparent, 
so fine are they. 



7,66 LADY DUFF-GORDON 

I have a friend, a farmer in a neighbouring village, 
and am much amused at seeing country life. It cannot 
be rougher, as regards material comforts, in New- 
Zealand or Central Africa, but there is no barbarism 
or lack of refinement in the manners of the people. 

The fine sun and clear air are delicious and reviving, 
and I mount my donkey early and late, with little Ahmad 
trotting beside me. In the evening comes my dear 
Sheykh Yoosuf, and I blunder through an hour's dicta- 
tion and reading of the story of the Barber's fifth 
brother. I presume that Yoosuf likes me, for I am 
constantly greeted with immense cordiality by graceful 
men in green turbans belonging, like him, to the holy 
family of Sheykh Abu-1-Hajjaj. They inquire tenderly 
after my health, and pray for me, and hope I am going 
to stay among them. 

I received an Illustrated News with a print of a 
ridiculous Rebekah at the well, from a picture by 
Hilton. With regard to Eastern subjects, two courses 
are open : to paint like mediaeval painters, white people 
in European clothes, or to come and see. Mawkish 
Misses, in fancy dresses, are not " benat~el-Arab," like 
Rebekah ; nor would a i:espectable man go on his 
knees like an old fool before the girl he w^as asking in 
marriage for the son of his master. 

Of all comical things, though, Victor Hugo's " Orient- 
ales " is the funnest. Elephants a,t Smyrna! Why not 
at Paris and London ? Quelle couleur locale ? Sheykh 
Yoosuf had a good laugh over Hilton's Rebekah, and 
the camels, more like pigs, as to their heads. He said 
we must have strange ideas of the books of Tourat (the 
Pentateuch) in Europe. 

I rejoice to say that next Wednesday is Bairam, and 



HILTON'S REBEKAH ^67 

to-morrow Ramadan " dies." Omar is very thin and 
yellow and headachy, and every one cross. How I wish 
I were going, instead of my letter, to see you all ; but 
it is evident that this heat is the thing that does me 
good, if anything will. 



Lady Duff-Gordon to 

ENGLISH LADIES 

El-Uksur, March 22, 1864. 
I am glad my letters amuse you. Sometimes I think 
they must breathe the unutterable dullness of Eastern 
life — not that it is dull to me, a curious spectator, but 
how the men with nothing on earth to do can endure it 
is a wonder. I went yesterday evening to call on a 
Turk at El-Karnak ; he is a gentlemanlike man, the 
son of a former mudeer who was murdered — I believe, 
for his cruelty and extortion. He has a thousand 
feddans (acres, or a little more) of land, and lives in a 
mud house, larger, but no better than that of a Fellah, 
and with two wives, and the brother of one of them ; 
he leaves the farm to his Fellaheen altogether, I fancy. 
There was one book, a Turkish one ; I could not read 
the title-page, and he did not tell me what it was. In 
short, there were no means of killing time, but the 
nargheeleh ; no horse, no gun — nothing ; and yet they 
don't seem bored. The two women are always 
clamorous for my visits, and very noisy and school- 
girlish, but apparently excellent friends, and very good 
natured. The gentleman gave me a kuffeeysh (thick 
headkerchief for the sun), so I took the ladies a bit of 



368 LADY DUFF-GORDON 

silk I happened to have. You never heard anything 
like his raptures over M.'s portrait. " Masha — allah ! 
it is the will of God ! and, by God, he is like a rose." 
But I can't take to the Turks ; I always feel that they 
secretly dislike and think ill of us European women, 
though they profess huge admiration and pay personal 
compliments, which an Arab very seldom attempts. 

I heard Seleem Efendi and Omar discussing English 
ladies one day lately, while I was inside the curtain with 
Seleem's slave-girl, and they did not know I heard them. 

Omar described J , and was of opinion that a man 

who was married to her could want nothing more. 
" By my soul, she rides like a Bedawee, she shoots with 
the gun and pistol, rows the boat ; she knows many 
languages and what is in their books ; works with the 
needle like an Efireet, and to see her hands run over 
the teeth of the music-box (keys of the piano) amazed 
the mind, while her singing gladdens the soul. How, 
then, should her husband ever desire the coffee-shop ! 
Wallahee ! she can always amuse him at home. And 
as to tny lady, the thing is not that she does not know. 
When I feel my stomach tightened, I go to the divan and 
say to her, ' Do you want anything — a pipe or sherbert 
or so and so ? and I talk till she lays down her book and 
talks to me and I question her and amuse my mind ; 
and, by God ! if I were a rich man and could carry one 
English hareem like these, I would stand before her and 
serve her like her memlook. You see I am only this 
lady's servant, and I have not once sat in the coffee-shop, 
because of the sweetness of her tongue. Is it not true, 
therefore, that the man who can marry such hareem 
is rich more than with money ? " 

Seleem seemed disposed to think a little more of 



AN EASTERN CONVERSATION 369 

good looks, though he quite agreed with all Omar's 

enthusiasm, and asked if J were beautiful. Omar 

answered, with decorous vagueness, that she was "a 
moon," but declined mentioning her hair, eyes, etc. (It 
is a liberty to describe a woman minutely.) I nearly 
laughed out at hearing Omar relate his manoeuvres to 
make me "amuse his mind." It seems I am in no 
danger of being discharged for being dull. On the other 
hand, frenchified Turks have the greatest detestation of 
femmes d'esprit. 

The weather has set in so hot that I have shifted my 
quarters out of my fine room to the south-west, into a 
room with only three sides, looking over a lovely green 
view to the north-east, and with a huge sort of solid 
verandah, as large as the room itself, on the open side — 
thus I live in the open air altogether. The bats and 
swallows are quite sociable ; I hope the serpents and 
scorpions will be more reserved. " Ell-Khamaseen " 
(the fifty days) has begun, and the wind is enough to 
mix up heaven and earth, but it is not distressing, like 
the Cape south-easter, and though hot, not choking 
like the khamaseen in Cairo and Alexandria. Moham- 
mad brought me some of the new wheat just now. 
Think of harvest in March and April ! These winds are 
as good for the crops here as a " nice steady rain " is in 
England. It is not necessary to water as much when 
the wind blows strong. 

As I rode through the green fields along on the dyke 
a little boy sang, as he turned round on the musically 
creaking Sakiyeh (the water-wheel turned by an ox), 
the one eternal Sakiyeh tune. The words are ad libitum, 
and my little friend chanted : "Turn, O Sakiyeh, to the 
right, and turn to the left, who will take care of me if 

24 



370 LADY DUFF-GORDON 

my father dies ? Turn, O Sakiyeh, etc. Pour water 
for the figs and the grapes, and for the water-melons. 
Turn," etc., etc. Nothing is so pathetic as that Sakiyeh 
song. 

I passed the house of the Shaykh-el-Abab-deh, who 
called out to me to take coffee. The moon rose splendid, 
and the scene was lovely ; the handsome black-brown 
sheykh in dark robes and white turban, Omar in a graceful 
white gown and red turban, the wild Abab-deh with 
their bare heads and long black ringlets, clad in all 
manner of dingy white rags, and bearing every kind of 
uncouth weapon in every kind of wild and graceful 
attitude, and a few little brown children quite naked, 
and shaped like Cupids. And there we sat and looked so 
romantic, and talked quite like ladies and gentlemen 
about the merits of Sakneh and Almas, the two great 
rival women singers of Cairo. I think the Sheykh wished 
to display his experience of fashionable life. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE (1816-1855) 

WAS born at Thornton, Yorkshire, a daughter of Patrick 
Bronte, a clergyman of Irish descent. In 1821 Mr. Bronte 
became curate at Haworth, to which village he moved, and 
where Charlotte's life was passed, except for her school days 
and for the period of two years when she studied at Brussels. 
Every one is familiar with the story of Charlotte, Emily, 
and Anne Bronte, as told by Mrs. Gaskell in her biography 
of the three sisters. It is sufficient, therefore, to state that 
Charlotte's first story, " The Professor " (which was rejected), 
was followed in 1847 by " Jane Eyre," " Shirley," 1849, 
and " Villette," 1852. She married Mr. Nicholls, her father's 
curate, in 1854, and died at Haworth on March 31, 1855. 




CHARLOT I'l-: 



P- 37o1 



From ail eiii^raving by J. C Armytage, 
after ihe draunng by G. Richmoiui, R.A. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE AND SOUTHEY 371 
To Robert Southey 

THE poet's warning 

March 16, 1837. 

Sir, — I cannot rest till I have answered your letter, 
even though by addressing you a second time I should 
appear a little intrusive ; but I must thank you for the 
kind and wise advice you have condescended to give 
me. I had not ventured to hope for such a reply ; so 
considerate in its tone, so noble in its spirit. I must 
suppress what I feel, or you will think me foolishly 
enthusiastic. 

At the first perusal of your letter I felt only shame 
and regret that I had ever ventured to trouble you with 
my crude rhapsody ; I felt a painful heat rise to my 
face when I thought of the quires of paper I had covered 
with what once gave me so much delight, but which 
now was only a source of confusion ; but after I had 
thought a little, and read it again and again, the prospect 
seemed to clear. You do not forbid me to write ; you 
do not say that what I write is utterly destitute of merit. 
You only warn me against the folly of neglecting real 
duties for the sake of imaginative pleasures ; of writing 
for the love of fame ; for the selfish excitement of 
emulation. You kindly allow me to write poetry for 
its own sake, provided I leave undone nothing which 
I ought to do, in order to pursue that single, absorbing, 
exquisite gratification. I am afraid, sir, you think me 
very foolish. I know the first letter I wrote to you was 
all senseless trash from beginning to end ; but I am 
not altogether the idle, dreaming being it would seem 
to denote. My father is a clergyman of limited though 
competent income, and I am the eldest of his children. 



-^72 CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

He expended quite as much on my education as he 
could afford in justice to the rest. I thought it therefore 
my duty, when I left school, to become a governess. 
In that capacity I find enough to occupy my thoughts 
all day long, and my head and hands too, without having 
a moment's time for one dream of the imagination. 
In the evenings, I confess, I do think, but I never trouble 
any one else with my thoughts. I carefully avoid any 
appearance of preoccupation and eccentricity, which 
might lead those I live amongst to suspect the nature 
of my pursuits. Following my father's advice — who 
from my childhood has counselled me, just in the wise 
and friendly tone of your letter — I have endeavoured 
not only attentively to observe all the duties a woman 
ought to fulfil, but to feel deeply interested in them. 
I don't always succeed, for sometimes when I'm teaching 
or sewing I would rather be reading or writing ; but I 
try to deny myself ; and my father's approbation 
amply rewarded me for the privation. Once more 
allow me to thank you with sincere gratitude. I trust 
I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in 
print ; if the wish should rise, I'll look at Sou they 's 
letter and suppress it. It is honour enough for me that 
I have written to him, and received an answer. That 
letter is consecrated ; no one shall ever see it but papa 
and my brother and sisters. Again I thank you. This 
incident, I suppose, will be renewed no more ; if I live 
to be an old woman, I shall remember it thirty years 
hence as a bright dream. The signature which you 
suspected of being fictitious is my real name. Again, 
therefore I must sign myself, 

C. Bronte. 
P.S. — Pray, sir, excuse me for writing to you a second 



LOVE AND MARRIAGE i,y7, 

time ; I could not help writing, partly to tell you how- 
thankful I am for your kindness, and partly to let you 
know that your advice shall not be wasted, however 
sorrowfully and reluctantly it may at first be followed. 

C. B. 

Charlotte Bronte to a Friend 
(on her first offer of marriage) 

March 12, 1839. 
... I had a kindly leaning towards him, because 
he is an amiable and well-disposed man. Yet I had 
not, and could not have, that intense attachment which 
would make me willing to die for him ; and if ever I 
marry it must be in that light adoration that I will 
regard my husband. Ten to one I shall never have 
the chance again ; but n'importe. Moreover, I was 
aware that he knew so little of me he could hardly be 
conscious to whom he was writing. Why ! it would 
startle him to see me in my natural home character ; 
he would think I was a wild, romantic enthusiast indeed. 
I could not sit all day long making a grave face before 
my husband. I would laugh, and satirise, and say 
whatever came into my head first. And if he were a 
clever man, and loved me, the whole world, weighed in 
the balance against his smallest wish, should be light 
as air. 

Charlotte Bronte to George Smith 

" ESMOND " 

November 10, 1852. 

My dear Sir, — I only wished the publication of 
" Shirley " to be delayed till " Villette" was nearly ready; 



374 CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

so that there can now be no objection to its being issued 
whenever you think fit. After putting the MS. into 
type I can only say that, should I be able to proceed 
with the third volume at my average amount of inter 
ruptions, I should hope to have it ready in about three 
weeks. I leave it to you to decide whether it would 
be better to delay the printing that space of time, or to 
commence it immediately. It would certainly be more 
satisfactory if you were to see the third volume before 
printing the first and second ; yet, if delay is likely to 
prove injurious, I do not think it is indispensable. 

I have read the third volume of " Esmond." I found 
it both entertaining and exciting to me ; it seems to 
possess an impetus and excitement beyond the other 
two ; that movement and brilliancy its predecessors 
sometimes wanted never fail here. In certain passages 
I thought Thackeray used all his powers ; their grand, 
serious force yielded a profound satisfaction. " At 
last he puts forth his strength," I could not help saying 
to myself. No character in the book strikes me as 
more masterly than that of Beatrix ; its conception 
is fresh, and its delineations vivid. It is peculiar ; it 
has impressions of a new kind — new at least to me. 
Beatrix is not, in herself, all bad. So much does she 
sometimes reveal of what is good and great as to suggest 
this feeling ; you would think she was urged by a Fate. 
You would think that some antique doom presses on 
her house, and that once in so many generations its 
brightest ornament was to become its greatest disgrace. 
At times what is good in her struggles against this 
terrible destiny, but the Fate conquers. Beatrix cannot 
be an honest woman and a good man's wife. She " tries 
and she cannot.'* Proud, beautiful, and sullied, she was 



"ESMOND" AND THE CRITICS 375 

born what she becomes, a king's mistress. I know 
not whether you have seen the notice in The Leader ; 
I read it just after concluding the book. Can I be 
wrong in deeming it a notice tame, cold, and insufficient ? 
With all its professed friendliness, it produced on me a 
most disheartening impression. Surely another sort of 
justice than this will be rendered to "Esmond" from 
other quarters. One acute remark of the critic is to 
the effect that Blanche Amory and Beatrix are identical 
— sketched from the same original ! To me they are 
about as identical as a weazel and a royal tigress of 
Bengal ; both the latter are quadrupeds, both the 
former women. But I must not take up either your 
time or my own with further remarks. 

Believe me yours sincerely, 

C. Bronte. 

Charlotte Bronte to Mary Taylor'^ 

A VISIT TO HER PUBLISHER 

Haworth, September 4, 1848. 
Dear Polly, — I write you a great many more letters 
than you write me, though whether they all reach you, 
or not. Heaven knows ! I dare say you will not be 
without a certain desire to know how our affairs get on ; 
I mil give you therefore a notion as briefly as may be. 
Acton Bell has published another book ; it is in three 
volumes, but I do not like it quite so well as "Agnes Grey" 
— the subject not being such as the author had pleasure 
in handling ; it has been praised by some reviews and 
blamed by others. As yet, only £2$ have been realised 

^ This letter is printed by the kind permission of Mr. Clement 
Shorter, from his most interesting and valuable work entitled 
" The Brontes : Life and Work." 



^y6 CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

for the copyright, and as Acton Bell's publisher is a 
shuffling scamp, I expected no more. 

About two months since I had a letter from my pub- 
lishers — Smith and Elder — saying that " Jane Eyre " had 
had a great run in America, and that a publisher there had 
consequently bid high for the first sheets of a new work 
by Currer Bell, which they had promised to let him have. 

Presently after came another missive from Smith 
and Elder ; their American correspondent had written 
to them complaining that the first sheets of a new work 
by Currer Bell had been already received, and not by 
their house, but by a rival publisher, and asking the 
meaning of such false play ; it enclosed an extract from 
a letter from Mr. Newby (A. and C. Bell's publisher) 
affirming that to the best of his belief "Jane Eyre,'* 
"Wuthering Heights," and "Agnes Grey," and "The 
Tenant of Wildfell Hall " (the new work) were all the 
production of one author. 

This was a lie, as Newby had been told repeatedly 
that they were the production of three different authors ; 
but the fact was he wanted to make a dishonest move in 
the game to make the public and the trade believe that 
he had got hold of Currer Bell, and thus cheat Smith 
and Elder by securing the American publisher's bid. 

The upshot of it was that on the very day I received 
Smith and Elder's letter, Anne and I packed up a 
small box, sent it down to Keighley, set out ourselves 
after tea, walked through a snowstorm to the station, 
got to Leeds, and whirled up by the night train to 
London with the view of proving our separate identity 
to Smith and Elder, and confronting Newby with his lie. 

We arrived at the Chapter Coffee-House (our old 
place, Polly : we did not well know where else to go) 



CURRER AND ACTON BELL ^-jy 

about eight o'clock in the morning. We washed our- 
selves, had some breakfast, sat a few minutes, and then 
set off in queer inward excitement to 65, Cornhill. 
Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Williams knew we were 
coming — they had never seen us — they did not know 
whether we were men or women, but had always written 
to us as men. 

We found 65 to be a large bookseller's shop, in a street 
almost as bustling as the Strand. We went in, walked 
up to the counter. There were a great many young 
men and lads here and there ; I said to the first I could 
accost: "May I see Mr. Smith?" He hesitated, 
looked a little surprised. We sat down and waited a 
while, looking at some books on the counter, publications 
of theirs well known to us, of many of which they had 
sent us copies as presents. At last we were shown up 
to Mr. Smith. "Is it Mr. Smith ? " I said, looking 
up through my spectacles at a tall young man. " It is." 
I then put his own letter into his hand directed to Currer 
Bell. He looked at it and then at me again. " Where 
did you get this ? " he said. I laughed at his perplexity 
— a recognition took place. I gave my real name : 
Miss Bronte. We were in a small room — ceiled with 
a great skylight — and there explanations were rapidly 
gone into ; Mr. Newby being anathematised, I fear, 
with undue vehemence. Mr. Smith hurried out and 
returned quickly with one whom he introduced as Mr. 
Williams, a pale, mild, stooping man of fifty, very much 
like a faded Tom Dixon. Another recognition and a long, 
nervous shaking of hands. Then followed talk — talk — 
talk ; Mr. Williams being silent, Mr. Smith loquacious. 

Mr. Smith said we must come and stay at his house, 
but we were not prepared for a long stay, and declined 



37S CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

this also ; as we took our leave he told us he should 
bring his sisters to call on us that evening. We returned 
to our inn, and I paid for the excitement of the interview 
by a thundering headache and harassing sickness. 
Towards evening, as I got no better and expected the 
Smiths to call, I took a strong dose of sal-volatile. It 
roused me a little ; still, I was in grievous bodily case 
when they were announced. They came in, two elegant 
young ladies, in full dress, prepared for the Opera — Mr. 
Smith himself in evening costume, white gloves, etc. 
We had by no means understood that it was settled we 
were to go to the Opera, and were not ready. Moreover, 
we had no fine, elegant dresses with us, or in the world. 
However, on brief rumination I thought it would be 
wise to make no objections — I put my headache in my 
pocket, we attired ourselves in the plain, high-made 
country garments we possessed, and went with them 
to their carriage, where we found Mr. Williams. They 
must have thought us queer, quizzical-looking beings, 
especially me with my spectacles. I smiled inwardly 
at the contrast, which must have been apparent, between 
me and Mr. Smith as I walked with him up the crimson- 
carpeted staircase of the Opera House and stood amongst 
a brilUant throng at the box door, which was not yet 
open. Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us with 
a slight, graceful superciliousness quite warranted by the 
circumstances. Still, I felt pleasantly excited in spite of 
headache and sickness and conscious clownishness, and 
I saw Anne was calm and gentle, which she always is. 

The performance was Rossini's opera of the Barber of 
Seville, very brilliant, though I fancy there are things 
I should like better. We got home after one o'clock ; 
we had never been in bed the night before, and had been 



THE VISIT TO THE OPERA 379 

in constant excitement for twenty-four hours. You 
may imagine we were tired. 

The next day, Sunday, Mr. WiUiams came early and 
took us to church. He was so quiet, but so sincere in 
his attentions, one could not but have a most friendly 
leaning towards him. He has a nervous hesitation in 
speech, and a difficulty in finding appropriate language 
in which to express himself, which throws him into 
the background in conversation ; but I had been his 
correspondent, and therefore knew with what intelligence 
he could write, so that I was not in danger of under- 
valuing him. In the afternoon Mr. Smith came in his 
carriage with his mother, to take us to his house to dine. 
Mr. Smith's residence is at Bayswater, six miles from 
Cornhill ; the rooms, the drawing-room especially, 
looked splendid to us. There was no company — only 
his mother, his two grown-up sisters, and his brother, 
a lad of twelve or thirteen, and a little sister, the youngest 
of the family, very like himself. They are all dark- 
eyed, dark-haired, and have clear, pale faces. The 
mother is a portly, handsome woman of her age, and all 
the children more or less well-looking — one of the 
daughters decidedly pretty. We had a fine dinner, 
which neither Anne nor I had appetite to eat, and were 
glad v/hen it was over. I always feel under an awkward 
constraint at table. Dining-out would be hideous to me. 

Mr. Smith made himself very pleasant. He is a 
practical man. I wish Mr. Williams were more so, but 
he is altogether of the contemplative, theorising order. 
Mr. Williams has too many abstractions. 

On Monday we went to the Exhibition of the Royal 
Academy and the National Gallery, dined again at Mr. 
Smith's, tlien went home with Mr. Williams to tea, and 



38o CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

saw his comparatively humble but neat residence and 
his fine family of eight children. A daughter of Leigh 
Hunt's was there. She sang some little Italian airs 
which she had picked up among the peasantry in 
Tuscany, in a manner that charmed me. 

On Tuesday morning we left London laden with 
books which Mr. Smith had given us, and got safely 
home. A more jaded wretch than I looked when I 
returned it would be difficult to conceive. I was thin 
when I went, but was meagre indeed when I returned ; 
my face looked grey and very old, with strange, deep 
lines ploughed in it ; my eyes stared unnaturally. I 
was weak and yet restless. In a while, however, the bad 
effects of excitement went off and I regained my normal 
condition. We saw Mr. Newby, but of him more another 
time. Good-bye. God bless you. Write. 

C. B. 

SARAH AUSTIN (1793-1867) 

A DAUGHTER of the famous clan of the Taylors of Norwich, 
and the wife of John Austin, a barrister. She made trans- 
lations from the German and the French, and wrote a book 
on Goethe, Germany, and national education. Her only 
daughter. Lady Duff-Gordon, was also an accomplished 
translator. 

To Mrs. Reeve ^ 

SHIPS AT MALTA 

Lazaretto, Malta, October 1836. 
Dear Sister, — Nothing can be more improving, ani- 
mating, beautiful, and unlike the rest of existence, than 

1 This and the following letters by Sarah Austin are reprinted, by 
kind permission of Mrs. Janet Ross, from her book, " Three Genera- 
tions of Englishwomen." 



J 



VALETTA HARBOUR 381 

the first sight of the interior of an English man-of-war ; 
the first day or two passed in the midst of all her pomp 
and glory, her orderly tumult, her difficulties, and her 
power ; but the weariness that comes on after some days 
is indescribable. Accordingly, after a ten days' passage 
from Marseilles on board the magnificent frigate Vernon, 
nothing could exceed our impatience at the calm which 
kept us hanging off the coast of Malta, nor the joy with 
which we saw the steam frigate Medea coming out 
of the harbour to tow us in. I shall never forget the 
effect which her rapid, undeviating course had upon 
me, after ten days of tacking, watching, longing for 
winds that would not blow. It was like the course of a 
man who asks no help but of his own judgment and 
his own inflexible will, compared with that of a weak 
and dependent woman shaping her way by every 
changing mood. In an hour from the time she took 
our towing rope we were in the great harbour of Valetta. 
No description, and I think no painting, can do justice 
to the wonderful aspect. In the first place, the many 
harbours, the way in which the rocky points throw 
themselves out into the sea ; then the colouring, the 
points a rich yellow white, the bays deep blue, and 
both lying under a sky which renders every object 
sharp, and every shadow deep and defined. The 
fortifications which grow out of all these headlands are 
so engrafted on the rocks, that you cannot see where 
the one begins and the other ends. The high, massive 
walls overlap and intersect at so many points, that 
there can be no monotony. In the bright sunlight 
the shadows of all these angles cut the earth or the 
sea just as variously as the solid walls do the sky. Above 
all rose the city, with its many churches. The most 



382 SARAH AUSTIN 

striking objects seen from the port are the splendid 
Albergo id Castiglia, the Hghthouse on Fort St. Elmo, 
and the Barracca, a row of arches standing on a lofty 
point and surrounded with trees — the only ones visible. 
Imagine these walls and bastions, this Barracca, and 
every balcony overlooking the harbour, crowded with 
people, whose cheers as we entered the harbour, rang 
across the waves and re-echoed from side to side, with 
an effect that to me, who expected nothing, was quite 
overpowering. Till this moment I had hardly been 
conscious of the awful task committed to my husband ; ^ 
I felt those cheers, eager and vehement as they were, 
as the voice of the suffering calling for help and for 
justice. While the officers around me were gaily 
congratulating me on a reception so flattering, I could 
say nothing, and turned away to hide my tears. 

Innumerable Maltese boats were flitting about the 
harbour, all painted bright green and red. Their build 
is peculiar ; the prow rises like a swan's neck. Most 
of them have a little flag, those belonging to the Lazar- 
etto being distinguished by a yellow one. They are 
rowed by two men standing, who at every stroke bend 
forward and throw their weight upon the oar. Most 
of them wear the long red woollen shawl, which they 
get from Tripoli, girded round the loins ; their dress 
is a blue jacket and blue or white trowsers, and the flat 
straw hat of our sailors. Nothing can be gayer than 
the appearance of these boats, while darting through 
them might be seen all the varieties of man-of-war's 
boats, with all the characteristics of their nation about 
them — steadiness, precision, order, promptitude, neat- 
ness, and quietness. 

1 His appointment at Malta as Royal Commissioner. 



MALTESE BOATS 383 

As the sun sank in the cloudless sky, the guns from 
all the ships were fired, and the bells and hum of the 
city were distinctly audible. The Vernon's barge 
took us into the Quarantine harbour, which lies on the 
other side of the tongue of land on which stands Valetta. 
At the Lazaretto we found Mr. Greig, the superintendent 
of Quarantine, \vaiting to introduce us to our rooms, 
for we are supposed to be infected, as the Vernon came 
from the Levant to fetch us at Marseilles. The stillness 
of this very comfortable prison contrasted strongly 
with the scene we had left, and was a great relief to 
wearied travellers. 



Sarah Austin to Mrs. Simpson 

HOT-WEATHER ATTIRE 

Weybridge, June 1862. 
Dearest Minnie, — I was just going to write to Mrs. 
Senior to say that, albeit packed, or nearly so, and 
ready to start, the heat of this day terrifies me, and 
I feel as if I ought rather to make my will than attempt 
a visit. I really dare not answer for myself ; I have 
had such giddiness from heat that I might fall down 
or do some strange thing. It is most provoking. One 
difficulty is the necessity of being dressed with decency. 
The costume I wish to adopt is that in which I found 
the Princess Villafranca — a shift (of the simplest and 
most primitive cut), a large black lace shawl, a pair of 
silk slippers (feet bare), and a huge fan. (N.B. — She 
was fatter than I am.) This I call a reasonable dress 
for this weather ; but I fear your mother's drawing- 
room is not the place for it. Even the most correct 



384 SARAH AUSTIN 

English ladies in Malta contented themselves with a 
shift and a white peignoir. At home I make a very- 
near approximation to this ; but, as Lady W. Russell 
said, the English conclude if your dress is loose that 
your morals are so. In that case I am thoroughly 
dissolute, but I will reform at Kensington. 

The more hyperborean the room the better. If you 
have an icehouse, put me in that. Seriously, I could 
by no means sleep, even if I were to lie in a south room, 
and I don't the least mind the additional stairs ; that 
difficulty can be surmounted by prudence and patience. 
This arrangement has the additional advantage that 
your kind father is not dislodged, which I know he 
was on my account before. Anything that makes 
me feel less of a bore and a burden is a great comfort. 
To conclude, I wish, hope, intend to be with you to- 
morrow evening. If I do not arrive by half-past ten, 
pray conclude that I cannot, and in that case I shall 
continue to have the same hopes and intentions for 
the following day. If that degree of uncertainty puts 
you to any inconvenience, pray, dear child, say so. 
Don't let me be a torment, if you love me, as I hope 
you do ; for I am always, with a great deal of affection, 

Yours, 

S. Austin. 



SARAH MARGARET FULLER (Marchioness Ossoli) 
(1810-1850) 

WAS born' at Cambridge-port, Mass. After her father's 
death she was obliged to maintain her brothers and sisters ; 
this she did by teaching. Later she began to write, edited 



FANNY KEMBLE AS "BEATRICE" 385 

The Dial, and contributed a series of articles to The Tribune, 
In 1846 she visited Rome, and there met and married the 
Marquis Ossoli ; during the siege she took charge of a hos- 
pital. On returning to America in 1850 she, her husband, 
and their little boy were drowned, the vessel being wrecked 
near New York. The child's body was washed ashore; 
those of his parents were never recovered. The last letter 
of Madame Ossoli, that of May 14, 1850, printed on page 401, 
did not reach its destination till after her death. 



Margaret Fuller Ossoli to 

FANNY KEMBLE 



[1837 ?] 

When in Boston, I saw the Kembles twice — in 
Much Ado about Nothing, and The Stranger. The 
first night I felt much disappointed in Miss K. 
In the gay parts a coquettish, courtly manner marred 
the wild mirth and wanton wit of Beatrice. Yet, in 
everything else I liked her conception of the part ; 
and where she urges Benedict to fight with Claudio, 
and where she reads Benedict's sonnet, she was 
admirable. But I received no more pleasure from Miss 
K.'s acting out the part than I have done in reading 
it, and this disappointed me. Neither did I laugh, 
but thought all the while of Miss K. — how very graceful 
she was, and whether this and that way of rendering 
the part was just. I do not believe she has comic 
power within herself, though tasteful enough to com- 
prehend any part. So I went home, vexed because 
m-y " heart was not full," and my " brain not on fire " 
with enthusiasm. I drank my milk, and went to 

25 



386 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

sleep, as on other dreary occasions, and dreamed not 
of Miss Kemble. 

Next night, however, I went expectant, and all my 
soul was satisfied. I saw her at a favourable distance, 
and she looked beautiful. And as the scene rose in 
interest, her attitudes, her gestures, had the expression 
which an Angelo could give to sculpture. After she 
tells her story, — and I was almost suffocated by the 
effort she made to divulge her sin and fall — she sunk 
to the earth, her head bowed upon her knee, her white 
drapery falling in large, graceful folds about this broken 
piece of beautiful humanity, crushed in the very manner 
so well described by Scott when speaking of a far 
different person, " not as one intentionally stoops, 
kneels, or prostrates himself to excite compassion, but 
like a man borne down on all sides by the pressure of 
some invisible force, which crushes him to the earth 
without power of resistance." A movement of ab- 
horrence from me, as her insipid confidante turned 
away, attested the triumph of the poet-actress. Had 
not all been over in a moment, I believe I could not 
have refrained from rushing forward to raise the fair, 
frail being, who seemed so prematurely humbled in 
her parent dust. I burst into tears : and, with the 
stifled, hopeless feeling of a real sorrow, continued to 
weep till the very end ; nor could I recover till I left 
the house. 

That is genius, which could give such life to this 
play ; for, if I may judge from other parts, it is deforced 
by inflated sentiments, and verified by few natural 
touches. I wish I had it to read, for I should like to 
recall her every tone and look. 



THE SPELL OF MUSIC 387 

Margaret Fuller Ossoli to Beethoven 

TO THE SPIRIT OF THE MASTER ^ 

Saturday Evening, November 25, 1843. 

My only Friend, — How shall I thank thee for once 
more breaking the chains of my sorrowful slumber ? 
My heart beats. I live again, for I feel that I am 
worthy audience for thee, and that my being would be 
reason enough for thine. 

Master, my eyes are always clear. I see that the 
universe is rich, if I am poor. I see the insignificance of 
my sorrows. In my will, I am not a captive ; in my 
intellect, not a slave. Is it then my fault that the 
palsy of my affections benumbs my whole life ? 

I know that the curse is but for the time. I know 
what the eternal justice promises. But on this one 
sphere it is sad. Thou didst say, thou hadst no friend 
but thy art. But that one is enough. I have no art, 
in which to vent the swell of a soul as deep as thine, 
Beethoven, and of a kindred frame. Thou wilt not 
think me presumptuous in this saying, as another 
might. I have always known that thou wouldst welcome 
and know me, as would no other who ever lived upon 
the earth since its first creation. 

Thou wouldst forgive me, master, that I have not 
been true to my eventual destiny, and therefore have 
suffered on every side " the pangs of despised love." 
Thou didst the same ; but thou didst borrow from 
those errors the inspiration of thy genius. Why is it 
not thus with me ? Is it because, as a woman, I am 
bound by a physical law, which prevents the soul 

1 Here Beethoven is only Madame Ossoli's imaginary corre- 
spondent, as he died in 1827. 



388 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

from manifesting itself ? Sometimes the moon seems 
mockingly to say so — to say that I, too, shall, not 
shine, unless I can find a sun. O, cold and barren 
moon, tell a different tale ! 

But thou, oh blessed master ! dost answer all my 
questions, and make it my privilege to be. Like a 
humble wife to the sage or poet, it is my triumph that 
I can understand and cherish thee : like a mistress, I 
arm thee for the fight : like a young daughter, I tenderly 
bind thy wounds. Thou art to me beyond compare, 
for thou art all I want. No heavenly sweetness of 
saint or martyr, no many-leaved Raphael, no golden 
Plato, is anything to me, compared with thee. The 
infinite Shakspeare, the stern Angelo, Dante, — ^bitter- 
sweet like thee, — are no longer seen in thy presence. 
And, beside these names, there are none that could 
vibrate to thy crystal sphere. Thou hast all of them, 
and that ample surge of life besides, that great winged 
being which they only dreamed of. There is none 
greater than Shakspeare ; he, too, is a god ; but his 
creations are successive : thy fiat comprehends them all. 

Last summer I met thy mood in nature, on those 
wide, impassioned plains flower- and crag-bestrewn. 
There the tide of emotion had rolled over, and left 
the vision of its smiles and sobs, as I saw to-night 
from thee. 

If thou wouldst take me wholly to thyself ! I 

am lost in this world, where I sometimes meet angels, 
but of a different star from mine. Even so does thy 
spirit plead with all spirits. But thou dost triumph 
and bring them all in. 

Master, I have this summer envied the oriole which 
had even a swinging nest in the high bough. I have 



THOMAS CARLYLE 389 

envied the least flower that came to seed, though that 
seed were strown to the wind. But I envy none when 
I am with thee. 



Margaret Fuller Ossoli to Ralph Waldo E[merson] 

A PEN-PICTURE OF CARLYLE 

[Paris, November 16, 1846.] 
Of the people I saw in London, you will wish me 
to speak first of the Carlyles. Mr. C. came to see me 
at once, and appointed an evening to be passed at 
their house. That first time I was delighted with him. 
He was in a very sweet humour — full of wit and pathos, 
without being overbearing or oppressive. I was quite 
carried away with the rich flow of his discourse ; and 
the hearty, noble earnestness of his personal being 
brought back the charm which once was upon his 
writing, before I wearied of it. I admired his Scotch, 
his way of singing his great full sentences, so that 
each one was like the stanza of a narrative ballad. 
He let me talk, now and then, enough to free my lungs 
and change my position, so that I did not get tired. 
That evening he talked of the present state of things 
in England, giving light, witty sketches of the men 
of the day, fanatics and others, and some sweet, homely 
stories he told of things he had known of the Scotch 
peasantry. Of you he spoke with hearty kindness : 
and he told, with beautiful feeling, a story of some 
poor farmer, an artisan, in the country, who on Sunday 
lays aside the cark and care of that dirty English 
world, and sits reading the Essays, and looking upon 
the sea. 



390 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

I left him that night intending to go out very often 
to their house. I assure you there never was anything 

so witty as Carlyle's description of . It was 

enough to kill one with laughing. I, on my side, con- 
tributed a story to his fund of anecdote on this subject, 
and it was fully appreciated. Carlyle is worth 
a thousand of you for that ; — he is not ashamed to laugh 
when he is amused, but goes on in a cordial, human 
fashion. 

The second time Mr. C. had a dinner-party, at which 
was a witty, French, flippant sort of man,^ author of 
a History of Philosophy, and now writing a Life of 
Goethe, a task for which he must be as unfit as irreligion 
and sparkling shallowness can make him. But he 
told stories admirably, and was allowed sometimes to 
interrupt Carlyle a little, of which one was glad, for 
that night he was in his more acrid mood ; and, though 
much more brilliant than on the former evening, grew 
Avearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost 
everything he said. 

For a couple of hours he was talking about poetry ; 
and the whole harangue was one eloquent proclamation 
of the defects in his own mind. Tennyson wrote in 
verse because the schoolmasters had taught him that 
it was great to do so, and had thus, unfortunately, 
been turned from the true path for a man. Burns 
had, in like manner, been turned from his vocation. 
Shakespeare had not the good sense to see that it would 
have been better to write straight on in prose ; — and 
such nonsense, which, though amusing enough at 
first, he ran to death after a while. The most amusing 
part is always when he comes back to some refrain, as 
1 Apparently George Henry Lewes. 



MRS. CARLYLE 391 

in the "French Revolution" of the sea-green. In this 
instance, it was Petrarch and Laura, the last word pro- 
nounced with his ineffable sarcasm of drawl. Although 
he said this over fifty times, I could not ever help 
laughing when Laura would come, Carlyle running 
his chin out, when he spoke it, and his eyes glancing 
till they looked like the eyes and beak of a bird of 
prey. Poor Laura ! Lucky for her that her poet 
had already got her safely canonized beyond the reach 
of this Teufelsdrockh vulture. 

The worst of hearing Carlyle is that you cannot in- 
terrupt him. I understand the habit and power of 
haranguing have increased very much upon him, so 
that you are a perfect prisoner when he has once got 
hold of you. To interrupt him is a physical impossi- 
bility. If you get a chance to remonstrate for a moment, 
he raises his voice and bears you down. True, he 
does you no injustice, and, with his admirable pene- 
tration, sees the disclaimer in your mind, so that you 
are not morally delinquent ; but it is not pleasant to 
be unable to utter it. The latter part of the evening, 
however, he paid us for this, by a series of sketches, 
in his finest style of railing and raillery, of modern 
French literature, not one of them, perhaps, perfectly 
just, but all drawn with the finest, boldest strokes, 
and, from his point of view, masterly. All were de- 
preciating, except that of Beranger, Of him he spoke 
with perfect justice, because with hearty sympathy. 

I had afterward some talk with Mrs. C, whom 
hitherto I had only seen ; for who can speak while her 
husband is there ? I like her very much ; — she is full 
of grace, sweetness, and talent. Her eyes are sad and 
charming. . . . 



392 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

After this, they went to stay at Lord Ashburton's, 
and I only saw them once more, when they came to 
pass an evening with us. Unluckily, Mazzini was with 
us, whose society, when he was there alone, I enjoyed 
more than any. He is a beauteous and pure music : 
also, he is a dear friend of Mrs. C, but his being there 
gave the conversation a turn to " progress " and ideal 
subjects, and C. was fluent in invectives on all our 
" rosewater imbecilities." We all felt distant from 
him, and Mazzini, after some vain efforts to remonstrate, 
became very sad. Mrs. C. said to me, " These are but 
opinions to Carlyle ; but to Mazzini, who has given his 
all, and helped bring his friends to the scaffold, in pursuit 
of such subjects, it is a matter of life and death." 

All Carlyle's talk that evening was a defence of 
mere force — success the test of right ; — if people would 
not behave well, put collars round their necks ; — find 
a hero, and let them be his slaves, etc. It was very 
Titanic, and anti-celestial. I wish the last evening 
had been more melodious. However, I bid Carlyle 
farewell, with feelings of the warmest friendship and 
admiration. We cannot feel otherwise to a great 
and noble nature, whether it harmonises with our own 
or not. T never appreciated what he has done for his 
age till I saw England. I could not. You must stand 
in the shadow of that mountain of shams, to know 
how hard it is to cast light across it. 

Honour to Carlyle ! Hoch ! Although, in the wine 
with which we drink this health, I, for one, must mingle 
the despised "rose-water." 

And now, having to your eye shown the defects of 
my own mind, in the sketch of another, I will pass 
on more lov/ly, — more willing to be imperfect, since 



CARLYLE'S TALK 393 

Fate permits such notable creatures, after all, to be 
only this or that. It is much if one is not only a crow 
or magpie ; — Carlyle is only a lion. Some time we 
may, all in full, be intelligent and humanly fair. 



Margaret Fuller Ossoli to Ralph Waldo Emerson 
carlyle's conversation 

Paris, December 1846. 
Accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant richness 
of his writings, his talk is still an amazement and a 
splendour scarcely to be faced with steady eyes. He 
does not converse, only harangues. It is the usual 
misfortune of such marked men, — happily not one 
invariable or inevitable, — that they cannot allow other 
minds room to breathe, and show themselves in their 
atmosphere, and thus miss the refreshment and in- 
struction which the greatest never cease to need from 
the experience of the humblest. Carlyle allows no 
one a chance, but bears down all opposition, not only 
by his wit and onset of words, resistless in their sharpness 
as so many bayonets, but by actual physical superiority 
■ — raising his voice, and rushing on his opponent with 
a torrent of sound. This is not in the least from 
unwillingness to allow freedom to others. On the 
contrary, no man would more enjoy a manly resistance 
to his thought. But it is the impulse of a mind 
accustomed to follow out its own impulse, as the hawk 
its prey, and which knows not how to stop in the chase. 
Carlyle indeed is arrogant and overbearing ; but in 
his arrogance there is no littleness — no self-love. It is 
the heroic arrogance of some old Scandinavian con- 



394 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

queror ; — it is his nature, and the untamable impulse 
that has given him power to crush the dragons. You 
do not love him, perhaps, nor revere ; and perhaps, 
also he would only laugh at you if you did ; but you 
like him heartily, and like to see him the powerful 
smith, the Siegfrid, melting all the old iron in his furnace 
till it glows to a sunset red, and burns you, if you sense- 
lessly go too near. He seems, to me, quite isolated, — 
lonely as the desert, — yet never was a man more fitted 
to prize a man, could he find one to match his mood. 
He finds them, but only in the past. 

He sings, rather than talks. He pours upon you a 
kind of satirical, heroical, critical poem, with regular 
cadences, and generally catching up, near the begin- 
ning, some singular epithet, which serves as a refrain 
when his song is full, or with which, as with a 
knitting needle, he catches up the stitches, if he has 
chanced, now and then, to let fall a row. For the 
higher kinds of poetry he has no sense, and his talk 
on that subject is delightfully and gorgeously absurd. 
He sometimes stops a minute to laugh at it himself, 
then begins anew with fresh vigour ; for all the 
spirits he is driving before him seem to him as Fata 
Morganas, ugly masks, in fact, if he can but make 
them turn about ; but he laughs that they seem to 
others such dainty Ariels. His talk, like his books, 
is full of pictures ; his critical strokes masterly. Allow 
for his point of view, and his survey is admirable. 
He is a large subject. I cannot speak more or wiselier 
of him now, nor needs it ; — his works are true, to 
blame and praise him, — the Siegfrid of England, — 
great and powerful, if not quite invulnerable, and of a 
might rather to destroy evil than legislate for good. . . . 



GEORGE SAND 395 

Margaret Fuller Ossoli to E. H. 

GEORGE SAND 

Paris, January 18, 1847. 

You wished to hear of George Sand, or, as they say- 
in Paris, "Madame Sand." I find that all we had 
heard of her was true in the outline ; I had supposed 
it might be exaggerated. She had every reason to 
leave her husband, — a stupid, brutal man, who insulted 
and neglected her. He afterwards gave up their child 
to her for a sum of money. . . . She takes rank in 
society like a man, for the weight of her thoughts, and 
has just given her daughter in marriage. Her son is 
a grown-up young man, an artist. Many women visit 
her and esteem it an honour. 

The servant who admitted me was in the picturesque 
costume of a peasant, and, as Madame Sand afterward 
told me, her god-daughter, whom she had brought 
from her province. She announced me as " Madame 
Saleze," and returned into the ante-room to tell me, 
" Madame says she does not know you." I began to 
think I was doomed to the rebuff, among the crowd 
who deserve it. However, to make assurance sure, 
I said, " Ask if she has not received a letter from me." 
As I spoke, Madame S. opened the door, and stood 
looking at me an instant. Our eyes met. I never 
shall forget her look at that moment. The doorway 
made a frame for her figure ; she is large, but well- 
formed. She was dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, 
with a black mantle on her shoulders, her beautiful 
hair dressed with the greatest taste, her whole ap- 
pearance and attitude, in its simple and ladylike dignity, 
presented an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar 



396 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

caricature idea of George Sand. Her face is a very 
little like the portraits, but much finer ; the upper 
part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful, the lower, 
strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy tempera- 
ment and strong passions, but not in the least coarse ; 
the complexion olive, and the air of the whole head 
Spanish (as, indeed, she was born at Madrid, and is 
only on one side of French blood). All these details 
I saw at a glance ; but what fixed my attention was 
the expression of goodness, nobleness, and power, that 
pervaded the whole, — the truly human heart and 
nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she 
said, " Gest vous," and held out her hand. I took it, 
and went into her little study ; we sat down a moment, 
then I said, " // me fait de bien de vous voir," and I 
am sure I said it with my whole heart, for it made 
me very happy to see such a woman, so large and so 
developed a character, and everything that is good 
in it so really good. I loved, shall always love her. 

She looked away and said, " Ah f vous m'avez ecrit 
une lettre charmante. This was all the preliminary of 
our talk, which then went on as if we had always known 
one another. She told me, before I went away, that 
she was going that very day to write to me ; that when 
the servant announced me she did not recognise the 
name, but after a minute it struck her that it might 
be La Dame Americaine, as the foreigners very commonly 
call me, for they find my name hard to remember. 
She was very much pressed for time, as she was then 
preparing copy for the printer, and having just returned, 
there were many applications to see her, but she wanted 
me to stay then, saying, "It is better to throw things 
aside, and seize the present moment." I stayed a 



CHOPIN 397 

good part of the day, and was very glad afterwards, 
for I did not see her again uninterrupted. Another 
day I was there, and saw her in her circle. Her daughter 
and another lady were present, and a number of gentle- 
men. Her position there was of an intellectual woman 
and good friend, — the same as my own in the circle 
of my acquaintance as distinguished from my in- 
timates. . . . 

Her way of talking is just like her writing, — lively, 
picturesque, with an undertone of deep feeling, and 
the same happiness in striking the nail on the head 
every now and then with a blow. 

We did not talk at all of personal or private matters. 
I saw, as one sees in her writings, the want of an in- 
dependent, interior life, but I did not feel it as a fault, 
there is so much in her of her kind. I heartily enjoyed 
the sense of so rich, so prolific, so ardent a genius. I 
liked the woman in her, too, very much ; I never liked 
a woman better. . . I forgot to mention that, while 
talking, she does smoke all the time- her little cigarette. 
This is now a common practice among ladies abroad, 
but I believe originated with her. 

For the rest, she holds her place in the literary and 
social world of France like a man, and seems full of 
energy and courage in it. I suppose she has suffered 
much, but she has also enjoyed and done much, and 
her expression is one of calmness and happiness. . . . 

Aftei-wards I saw Chopin. ... I went to see him in 
his room with one of his friends. He is always ill, 
and as frail as a snowdrop, but an exquisite genius. 
He played to me, and I liked his talking scarcely less. 
Madame S. loved Liszt before him ; she has thus been 
intimate with the two opposite sides of the musical 



398 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

world. Mickiewiez says, " Chopin talks with spirit, 
and gives us the Ariel view of the universe. Liszt is 
the eloquent tribune to the world of men, a little vulgar 
and showy certainly, but I like the tribune best." It 
is said here that Madame S. has long had a friend- 
ship only for Chopin, who, perhaps, on his side, prefers 
to be a lover, and a jealous lover ; but she does not 
leave him, because he needs her care so much, when 
sick and suffering, . . . 



Margaret Fuller Ossoli to E. H. 

RACHAEL 

[Paris 1847.] 

. . . When I came here, my first thought was to go 
and see Mademoiselle Rachael. I was sure that in 
her I should find a true genius. I went to see her 
seven or eight times, always in parts that required 
great force of soul and purity of taste, even to conceive 
them, and only once had reason to find fault with 
her. On one single occasion I saw her violate the 
harmony of her character, to produce effect at a par- 
ticular moment ; but, almost invariably, I found her 
a true artist, worthy of Greece, and woirthy at many 
moments to have her conceptions immortalised in 
marble. 

Her range even in high tragedy is limited. She 
can only express the darker passions, and grief in its 
most desolate aspects. Nature has not gifted her 
with those softer and more flowery attributes that 
lend to pathos its utmost tenderness. She does not 
melt in tears, or calm or elevate the heart by the presence 



RACHAEL 399 

of that tragic beauty that needs all the assaults of fate 
to make it show its immortal sweetness. Her noblest 
aspect is when sometimes she expresses truth in some 
severe shape, and rises, simple and austere, above the 
mixed elements around her. On the dark side, she 
is very great in hatred and revenge. I admired her 
more in Phedre than in any other part in which I saw 
her ; the guilty love inspired by the hatred of a goddess 
was expressed, in all its symptoms, with a free and 
terrible naturalness, that almost suffocated the beholder. 
After she had taken the poison, the exhaustion and 
paralysis of the system, — the sad, cold, calm sub- 
mission to Fate, — were still more grand. 

I had heard so much about the power of her eye in 
one fixed look, and the expression she could concentrate 
in a single word, that the utmost results could only 
satisfy my expectations. It is, indeed, something 
magnificent to see the dark cloud give out such sparks > 
each one fit to deal a separate death ; but it was not 
that I admired most in her. It was the grandeur, 
truth, and depth of her conception of each part, and 
the sustained purity with which she represented it. 

The French language from her lips is a divine dialect ; 
it is stripped of its national and personal peculiarities, 
and becomes what any language must, moulded by 
such a genius — the pure music of the heart and soul. 
I never could remember her tone in speaking any 
word : it was too perfect ; you had received the thought 
quite direct. Yet, had I never heard her speak a 
word, my mind would be filled by her attitudes. 
Nothing more graceful can be conceived, nor could 
the genius of sculpture surpass her management of the 
antique drapery. 



400 SARAH MARGARET FULLER 

She has no beauty, except in the intellectual severity 
of her outline, and she bears marks of race that will 
grow stronger every year, and make her ugly at last. 
Still it will be a grandiose gipsy, or rather Sibylline 
ugliness, well adapted to the expression of some tragic 
parts. Only it seems as if she could not live long ; 
she expends force enough upon a part to furnish out 
a dozen common lives. 



Margaret Fuller Ossoli to her Mother 

THE BABY 

Florence, December i, 1849. 

I do not know what to write about the baby, he 
changes so much, has so many characters. He is like 
me in that, for his father's character is simple and 
uniform, though not monotonous, any more than are 
the flowers of spring, flowers of the valley. Angelino 
is now in the most perfect, rosy health, — a very gay, 
impetuous, ardent, but sweet-tempered child. He 
seems to me to have nothing in common with his first 
babyhood, with its ecstatic smiles, its exquisite sensitive- 
ness, and a distinction in the gesture and attitudes 
that struck everybody. He is now come to quite a 
knowing age, — fifteen months. 

In the morning as soon as dressed, he signs to come 
into our room ; then draws our curtain with his little 
dimpled hand, kisses me rather violently, pats my face, 
laughs, crows, shows his teeth, blows like the bellows, 
stretches himself, and says " bravo." Then, having 
shown off all his accomplishments, he expects, as a 
reward, to be tied in his chair, and have his playthings. 



HUSBAND AND CHILD 401 

These engage him busily, but still he calls to us to 
sing and drum, to enliven the scene. Sometimes he 
summons me to kiss his hand, and laughs very much at 
this. Enchanting is that baby-laugh, all dimples 
and glitter, — so strangely arch and innocent ! Then 
I wash and dress him. That is his great time. He 
makes it last as long as he can, insisting to dress and 
wash me the while, kicking, throwing the water about, 
and full of all manner of tricks, such as, I think, girls 
never dream of. Then comes his walk ; — we have 
beautiful walks here for him, protected by fine trees, 
always warm in mid-winter. The bands are playing 
in the distance, and children of all ages are moving 
about, and sitting with their nurses. His walk and 
sleep give me about three hours in the middle of 
the day. 



Margaret Fuller Ossoli to her Mother 

A FAREWELL 

Florence, May 14, 1850. 
I will believe I shall be welcome with my treasures — 
my husband and child. For me, I long so much to 
see you ! Should anything hinder our meeting upon 
earth, think of your daughter, as one who always wished, 
at least, to do her duty, and who always cherished 
you, according as her mind opened to discover excellence. 
Give dear love, too, to my brothers ; and first to 
my eldest, faithful friend ! Eugene ; a sister's love to 
Ellen ; love to my kind and good aunts, and to my 

dear cousin E God bless them ! 

I hope we shall be able to pass some time together, 

26 



402 LADY HESTER STANHOPE 

yet, in this world. But if God decrees otherwise, — 
here and Here after, — my dearest mother, 

Your loving child, 

Margaret. 



LADY HESTER STANHOPE (1776-1839) 

WAS the eldest daughter of Earl Stanhope, and niece of 
William Pitt, with whom she lived till his death in 1806. 
Four years later she left England to travel in the East, 
and eventually made her home on Mount Lebanon, where 
she was regarded with great veneration by the tribes. The 
last years of her life were spent in great distress, owing 
to her recklessness in money matters. Lady Hester was 
probably the most intrepid woman traveller of her time. 



To H.R.H. Maxmilian Duke of Bavaria 

A ROYAL VISITOR 

JooN, June 8, 1838. 
Highness, — I cannot sufficiently appreciate the honour 
you intend me in wishing to visit my hermitage ; but 
permit me to impose these conditions on you — that 
you say not a word more, neither you nor the noblemen 
in your suite, of those trifling services which you have 
so graciously and benevolently accepted. Allow me 
also to acquaint your highness, that, although I was 
in my time a woman of the world, for these last twenty 
years I have been nothing but a philosopher, who 
turns out of her road for nobody. When Alexander 
the Great visited Diogenes, he neither changed his 
dress nor moved his tub for him : pardon me, prince, 
if I imitate his example. 



THE COUNTRY HOUSE 403 

There was a time when my house was passable ; but 
now there are many rooms in ruins for want of repairs — 
especially a large pavilion in the garden, tumbling 
down from an earthquake ; so that I could not lodge 
more than three or four persons at a time. What 
lodging I have for you is, first of all, a little garden 
on the east side of my residence, with a small saloon, 
and outside of the door two mustabys.^ where two 
persons might sleep. Adjoining the saloon is a bedroom, 
and at the back of it a sleeping-room for two valets, 
with mattresses on the floor, according to the custom 
of the country. The saloon has a trellis in front. Just 
out of the garden-gate is a little place to make coffee, 
or boil water for shaving ; and opposite to it is another 
room for ordinary strangers, where two persons can sleep, 
and where Count Tattenbach was lodged. For the other 
servants there is room in one of the courtyards. As for 
my own divan, it has been in a ruinous state for some years, 
and I inhabit at present a badly furnished little room. 

I beg your highness will consider the little garden, 
and the pavilion in it, which I have just mentioned, 
as your own, until the ship which you expect arrives. 
You can make your excursions in the mountain when 
you like. With you, you can bring two or three of 
the gentlemen of your suite, and these can make room 
for others in their turn. Only, I hope that the baron 
and Count Gaiety, as I call him (for, according to 
what the doctor tells me, during all your misfortunes 
he has always preserved his cheerfulness), will not 
come both together, because I have got a great deal 
to say to each. Thus, then, I shall expect your royal 
highness on Saturday evening. 

1 Stone seats placed against the wall. 



404 LADY HESTER STANHOPlE 

I have the honour to salute you, prince, with the 
most perfect esteem and highest consideration, begging 
you to accept, with your known nobleness, the welcome 
of the dervise, 

H. L. Stanhope. 



Lady Hester Stanhope to Sir Francis Burdett, Bart. 

PLAIN SPEAKING 

JOON, July 20, 1838. 

My dear Burdett, — I am no fool, neither are you ; 
but you might pass for one, if in good earnest you 
did not understand my letter. You tell me what is 
self-evident — that I have no right to inherit Colonel 
Needham's property, etc., neither has your daughter 
any right to inherit Mr. Coutts's property ; but, in all 
probability, his wife, being aware that you and your 
family stood high in his estimation, paid that com- 
pliment to his memory. Lord Kilmorey, who had 
no children, being aware of General Needham's par- 
tiality towards Mr. Pitt, might, by his will, have allowed 
the property to return to the remaining branch of the 
Pitt family. Do not be afraid that I am going to 
give you any fresh trouble about this affair, notwith- 
standing I believe that you were some time hatching 
this stupid answer ; but I do not owe you any grudge, 
as I know that it does not come from you : — I know 
where it comes from. 

A lion of the desert, being caught in the huntsman's 
net, called in vain to the beasts of the field to assist 
him, and received from them about as shuffling an 
answer as I have received from you and previously 



THE LION AND THE MOUSE 405 

from Lord . A little field-mouse gnawed the 

master knot, and called to the lion to make a great 
effort, which burst the noose, and out came the lion 
stronger than ever. 

I am now about building up every avenue to my 
premises, and there shall wait with patience, immured 
within the walls, till it please God to send me a little 
mouse ; and whoever presumes to force my retirement, 
by scaling my walls or anything of the like, will be 
received by me as Lord Camelford would have received 
them. 

Hester Lucy Stanhope. 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE (1811-1896) 

DAUGHTER of a clergyman, Dr. Lyman Beecher. She 
was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, and at the age of 21 
removed to Cincinnati. In 1836 she married a teacher, 
Calvin E. Stowe, who afterwards became a Professor at 
Bawdoin College. Notwithstanding great disadvantages, 
she commenced, at the suggestion of her husband, a literary 
career, which brought her fame ; and by the publication of 
" Uncle Tom's Cabin " she greatly promoted the cause of 
anti-slavery. 

To Miss May^ 

A day's work 

New Haven, Conn., June 21, 1838* 
My dear, dear Georgiana, — Only think how long 
it is since I have written to you, and how changed I 

•■ The following letters of Mrs. Beecher Stowe are reprinted 
from her Life by Charles E. Stowe, by permission of Messrs. 
Sampson Low, Marston & Company, Ltd. 



4o6 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

am since then — the mother of three children ! Well, 
if I have not kept the reckoning of old times, let this 
last circumstance prove my apology, for I have been 
hand, heart, and head full since I saw you. 

Now, to-day, for example, I'll tell you what I had 
on my mind from dawn to dewy eve. In the first 
place I waked about half after four and thought, " Bless 
me, how light it is ! I must get out of bed and rap 
to wake up Mina, for breakfast must be had at six 
o'clock this morning." So out of bed I jump and 
seize the tongs, and pound, pound, pound over poor 
Mina's sleepy head, charitably allowing her about 
half an hour to get waked up in — that being the 
quantum of time that it takes me — or used to. Well, 
then baby wakes — qua, qua, qua, so I give him his 
breakfast, dozing meanwhile and soliloquising as follows : 
"Now I must not forget to tell Mr. Stowe about the 
starch and dried apples " — doze — " ah, um, dear me ! 
Why doesn't Mina get up ? I don't hear her " — doze — 
"ah, um — I wonder if Mina has soap enough ! I think 
there were two bars left on Saturday " — doze again — 
I wake again. " Dear me, broad daylight ! I must 
get up and go down and see if Mina is getting breakfast." 
Up I jump and up wakes baby. " Now, little boy, 
be good and let mother dress, because she is in a hurry." 
I get my frock half on, and baby by that time has 
kicked himself down off his pillow, and is crying and 
fisting the bed-clothes in great order. I stop with 
one shoe off and one on to settle matters \\dth him. 
Having planted him bolt upright and gone all up and 
down the chamber barefoot to get pillows and blankets 
to prop him up, I finish putting my frock on and hurry 
down to satisfy myself by actual observation that the 



VARIED DUTIES 407 

breakfast is in progress. Then back I come into the 
nursery, where, remembering that it is washing-day 
and that there is a great deal of work to be done, I 
apply myself vigorously to sweeping, dusting, and the 
setting to rights so necessary where there are three 
little mischiefs always pulling down as fast as one 
can put up. 

Then there are Miss H and Miss E , concerning 

whom Mary will furnish you with all suitable particulars, 
who are chatting, hallooing, or singing at the tops of 
their voices, as may suit their various states of mind, 
while the nurse is getting breakfast ready. This meal 
being cleared away, Mr. Stowe dispatched to market 
with various memoranda of provisions, etc., and the 
baby being washed and dressed, I begin to think what 
next must be done. I start to cut out some little 
dresses, have just calculated the length and got one 
breadth torn off when Master Harry makes a doleful 
lip and falls to crying with might and main. I catch 
him up and, turning round, see one of his sisters flourishing 
the things out of my work-box in fine style. Moving 
it away and looking the other side, I see the second 
little mischief seated by the hearth chewing coals 
and scraping up ashes with great apparent relish. 
Grandmother lays hold upon her and charitably offers 
to endeavour to quiet baby while I go on with my 
work. I set at it again, pick up a dozen pieces, measure 
them once more to see which is the right one, and 
proceed to cut out some others, when I see the twins 
on the point of quarrelUng with each other. Number 
one pushes number two over. Number two screams : 
that frightens the baby, and he joins in. I call number 
one a naughty girl, take the persecuted one in my 



4o8 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

arms, and endeavour to comfort her by trotting to the 

old lyric : 

So ride the gentlefolk, 
And so do we, so do we. 

Meanwhile number one makes her way to the slop-jar 
and forthwith proceeds to wash her apron in it. Grand- 
mother catches her by one shoulder, drags her away, 
and sets the jar up out of her reach. By and by the 
nurse comes up from her sweeping. I commit the 
children to her, and finish cutting out the frocks. 

But let this suffice, for of such details as these are all my 
days made up. Indeed, my dear, I am but a mere drudge 
with few ideas beyond babies and housekeeping. As for 
thoughts, reflections, and sentiments, good lack ! good lack ! 

I suppose I am a dolefully uninteresting person at 
present, but I hope I shall grow young again one of 
these days, for it seems to me matters cannot always 
stand as they do now. 

Well, Georgy, this marriage is — yes, I will speak 
well of it, after all ; for when I can stop and think 
long enough to discriminate my head from my heels, 
I must say that I think myself a fortunate woman 
both in husband and children. My children I would 
not change for all the ease, leisure, and pleasure that 
I could have without them. They are money on interest, 
whose value will be constantly increasing. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe to Mrs. Pollen 

REMINISCENCES 

Andover, February i6, 1853. 
My dear Madam, — I hasten to reply to your letter, 
to me the more interesting that I have long been ac- 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 409 

quainted with you, and during all the nursery part of 
my life made daily use of your poems for children. 

I used to think sometimes in those days that I would 
write to you, and tell you how much I was obliged to 
you for the pleasure which they gave us all. 

So you want to know something about what sort 
of woman I am ! Well, if this is any object, you shall 
have statistics free of charge. To begin, then, I am 
a little bit of a woman — somewhat more than forty, 
about as thin and dry as a pinch of snuff ; never very 
much to look at in my best days, and looking like a 
used-up article now. 

I was married when I was twenty-five years old to 
a man rich in Greek and Hebrew, Latin and Arabic, 
and alas ! rich in nothing else. When I went to house- 
keeping, my entire stock of china for parlor and kitchen 
was bought for eleven dollars. That lasted very well 
for two years, till my brother was married and brought 
his bride to visit me. I then found, on review, that 
I had neither plates nor teacups to set a table for my 
father's family ; wherefore I thought it best to reinforce 
the establishment by getting me a tea-set that cost 
ten dollars more, and this, I believe, formed my whole 
stock-in-trade for some years. 

But then I was abundantly enriched with wealth 
of another sort. 

I had two little curly-headed twin daughters to 
begin with, and my stock in this line has gradually 
increased, till I have been the mother of seven children : 
the most beautiful and the most loved of whom lies 
buried near my Cincinnati residence. ... I allude to this 
here because I have often felt that much that is in 
that book [" Uncle Tom "] had its root in the awful 



4IO HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

scenes and bitter sorrows of that summer. It has 
left now, I trust, no trace on my mind, except a deep 
compassion for the sorrowful, especially for mothers 
who are separated from their children. 

During long years of struggling with poverty and 
sickness, and a hot, debilitating climate, my children 
grew up around me. The nursery and the kitchen were 
my principal fields of labour. Some of my friends, 
pitying my trials, copied and sent a number of little 
sketches from my pen to certain liberally paying 
" Annuals " with my name. With the first money that 
I earned in this way I bought a feather-bed ! for as 
I had married into poverty, and without a dowry, and 
as my husband had only a large library of books, and 
a great deal of learning, the bed and pillows were thought 
the most profitable investment. After this I thought 
that I had discovered the philosopher's stone, so when 
a new carpet or mattress was going to be needed, or 
when, at the close of the year, it began to be evident 
that my family accounts, like poor Dora's, " wouldn't 
add up," then I used to say to my faithful friend and 
factotum, Anna, who shared all my joys and sorrows, 
" No," if you will keep the babies and attend to the 
things in the house for one day, I'll write a piece, and 
then we shall be out of the scrape." So I became an 
author — very modest, at first, I do assure you, and 
remonstrating very seriously with the friends who 
had thought it best to put my name to the pieces by 
way of getting up a reputation ; and if ever you see 
a woodcut of me, with an immoderately long nose, 
on the cover of all the U. S. Almanacs, I wish you to 
take notice, that I have been forced into it contrary 
to my natural modesty by the imperative solicitations 



"UNCLE TOM'S CABIN" 411 

of my dear five thousand friends and the pubHc generally. 
... I suffer exquisitely in writing these things. It 
may be truly said that I write with my heart's blood. 
Many times in writing " Uncle Tom's Cabin " I thought 
my health would fail utterly ; but I prayed earnestly 
that God would help me till I got through, and still 
I am pressed beyond measure and above strength. 

This horror, this nightmare abomination ! can it be 
in my country ! It lies like lead on my heart, it shadows 
my life with sorrow ; the more so that I feel, as for 
my own brothers, for the South, and am pained by 
every horror I am obliged to write, as one who is forced 
by some awful oath to disclose in court some family 
disgrace. Many times I have thought that I must 
die, and yet I pray God that I may live to see some- 
thing done. I shall in all probability be in London 
in May : shall I see you ? 

It seems to me so odd and dream-like that so many 
persons desire to see me, and now I cannot help thinking 
that they will think, when they do, that God hath 
chosen "the weaklings of this world." 

If I live till spring I shall hope to see Milton's grave, 
and Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, and the good land of 
my fathers, — old, old, England ! May that day come. 
Yours affectionately, 

H. B. Stowe. 



Harriet Beecher Stowe to her Husband 

CHARLES KINGSLEY AT HOME 

Paris, November 7, 1856. 
My dear Husband, — On the 28th, when your last 
was written, I was at Charles Kingsley's. It seemed 



412 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

odd enough to Mary and me to find ourselves, long 
after dark, alone in a hack, driving towards the 
house of a man whom we never had seen (nor his wife 
then). 

My heart fluttered as, after rumbling a long way 
through the dark, we turned into a yard. We knocked 
at a door and were met in the hall by a man who stam- 
mers a little in his speech, and whose inquiry, " Is 
this Mrs. Stowe ? " was our first positive introduction. 
Ushered into a large, pleasant parlor lighted by a 
coal fire, which flickered on comfortable chairs, lounges, 
pictures, statuettes, and book-cases, we took a good 
view of him. He is tall, slender, with blue eyes, brown 
hair, and a hale, well-browned face, and somewhat 
loose- jointed withal. His wife is a real Spanish 
beauty. 

How we did talk and go on for three da37S ! I guess 
he is tired. I'm sure we were. He is a nervous, ex- 
citable being, and talks with head, shoulders, arms, 
and hands, while his hesitance makes it the harder. 
Of his theology I will say more some other time. He 
also has been through the great distress, the " Conflict 
of Ages," but has come out at a different end from 
Edward, and stands with John Foster, though with 
more positiveness than he. 

He laughed a good deal at many stories I told him 
of father, and seemed delighted to hear about him. 
But he is, what I did not expect, a zealous Churchman ; 
insists that the Church of England is the finest and 
broadest platform a man can stand on, and that the 
Thirty-nine Articles are the only ones he could subscribe 
to. I told him you thought them the best summary 
(of doctrine) you knew, which pleased him greatly. 



ViSItING THE KINGSLEY'S 41^ 

Harriet Beecher Stowe to her Husband 

THE GLAMOUR OF ROME 

March i, 1857. 

My dear Husband, — Every day is opening to me a 
new world of wonders here in Italy. I have been in 
the Catacombs, where I was shown many memorials 
of the primitive Christians, and to-day we are going 
to the Vatican. The weather is sunny and beautiful 
beyond measure, and flowers are springing in the fields 
on every side. Oh, my dear, how I do long to have 
you here to enjoy what you are so much better fitted 
to appreciate than I — this wonderful combination of 
the past and the present , of what has been and what is ! 

Think of strolling leisurely through the Forum, of 
seeing the very stones that were laid in the time of 
the Republic, of rambling over the ruined Palace of the 
Caesars, of walking under the Arch of Titus, of seeing 
the Dying Gladiator, and whole ranges of rooms 
filled with wonders of art, all in one morning ! All 
this I did on Saturday, and only wanted you. You 
know so much more and could appreciate so much 
better. At the Palace of the Caesars, where the very 
dust is a melange of exquisite marbles, I saw for the 
first time an acanthus growing, and picked my first 
leaf. 

Our little menage moves on prosperously ; the doctor 
takes excellent care of us and we of him. One sees 
everybody here at Rome, John Bright, Mrs. Hemans's 
son, Mrs. Gaskell, etc., etc. Over five thousand English 
travellers are said to be here. Jacob Abbott and wife 
are coming. Rome is a world ! Rome is an astonish- 
ment ! Papal Rome is an enchantress ! Old as she 



414 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

is, she is like Ninon d'Enclos — the young fall in love 
with her. 

You will hear next from us at Naples. 

Affectionately yours, 

H. B. S. 



Harriet Beecher Stowe to George Eliot 

THE BEAUTIES OF FLORIDA 
Mandarin, Florida, May ii, 1872 {Begun April 4). 
My dear Friend, — I was very glad to get your dear 
little note — sorry to see by it that you are not in your 
full physical force. Owing to the awkwardness and 
misunderstanding of publishers, I am not reading 
"Middlemarch," as I expected to be, here in these 
orange shades : they don't send it, and I am too far 
out of the world to get it. I felt, when I read your 
letters, how glad I should be to have you here in our 
Florida cottage, in the wholly new, wild, woodland 
life. Though resembling Italy in climate, it is wholly 
different in the appearance of nature — the plants, 
the birds, the animals, all different. The green tidiness 
and culture of England here gives way to a wild and 
rugged savageness of beauty. Every tree bursts forth 
with flowers ; wild vines and creepers execute delirious 
gambles, and weave and interweave in interminable 
labyrinths. Yet here, in the great sandy plains back 
of our house, there is a constant, wondering sense of 
beauty in the wild, wonderful growths of nature. First 
of all, the pines — high as the stone-pines of Italy — with 
long leaves, eighteen inches long, through which there 
is a constant dreamy sound, as if of dashing waters. 
The live-oaks and the water-oaks, narrow-leaved ever- 



THE FLORIDA COTTAGE 415 

greens, which grow to enormous size, and whose branches 
are draped with long festoons of gray moss. There 
is a great, wild park of these trees back of us, which, 
with the dazzling, varnished green of the new spring 
leaves and the swaying draperty of moss, looks like 
a sort of enchanted grotto. Underneath grow up 
hollies and ornamental flowering shrubs, and the yellow 
jessamine climbs into and over everything with fragrant 
golden bells and buds, so that sometimes the foliage of 
a tree is wholly hidden in its embrace. 

This wild, wonderful, bright, and vivid growth, that 
is all new, strange, and unknown by name to me, has 
a charm for me. It is the place to forget the outside 
world, and live in one's self. And if you were here, 
we would go together and gather azaleas, and white 
lilies, and silver bells, and blue iris. The flowers keep 
me painting in a sort of madness. I have just finished 
a picture of white lilies that grow in the moist land 
by the watercourses. I am longing to begin on blue 
iris. Artist, poet, as you are by nature, you ought 
to see all these things, and if you would come here I 
would take you in heart and house, and you should 
have a little room in our cottage. The history of the 
cottage is this : I found a hut built close to a great 
live-oak twenty-five feet in girth, and with overarching 
boughs eighty feet up in the air, spreading like a firma- 
ment, and all swaying with mossy festoons. We 
began to live here, and gradually we improved the 
hut by lath, plaster, and paper. Then we threw out 
a wide veranda all round, for in these regions the 
veranda is the living-room of the house. Ours had 
to be built around the trunk of the tree, so that our 
cottage has a peculiar and original air, and seems as 



4i6 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 

if it were half tree, or a something that had grown 
out of the tree. We added on parts, and have thrown 
out gables and chambers, as a tree throws out new 
branches, till our cottage is like nobody else's, and 
yet we settle into it with real enjoyment. There are 
all sorts of queer little rooms in it, and we are accom- 
modating at this present a family of seventeen souls. 
In front, the beautiful, grand St. John's stretches five 
miles from shore to shore, and we watch the steam- 
boats flying back and forth to the great world we are 
out of. On all sides, large orange-trees, with their 
dense shade and ever-vivid green, shut out the sun, 
so that we can sit, and walk, and live in the open air. 
Our winter here is only cool, bracing, outdoor weather 
without snow. No month without flowers blooming 
in the open air, and lettuce and peas in the garden. 
The summer range is about 90°, but the sea-breezes 
keep the air delightfully fresh. Generally we go north, 
however, for three months of summer. Well, I did 
not mean to run on about Florida, but the subject 
runs away with me, and I want you to visit us in spirit 
if not personally. 

My poor rabbi ! — he sends you some Arabic, which 
I fear you cannot read : on diablerie he is up to his 
ears in knowledge, having read all things in all tongues 
from the Talmud down. . . . 

Ever lovingly yours, 

H. B. Stowe. 



AGNES STRICKLAND (1796-1874) 

DAUGHTER of Thomas Strickland of Reydon Hall, Suffolk. 
She began writing at an early age, but her best known work 



PRESENTATION AT COURT 417 

is " The Lives of the Queens of England," a book which is 
still a recognised authority on the subject. Her life was 
uneventful and was spent for the most part at Southwold 
in Suffolk. 



To Miss Porter ^ 

THE DRAWING-ROOM 

May 28, 1840. 

I have not written to you, my dearest, kindest friend, 
since the great affair of my presentation, which was 
beautifully arranged for me by the amiable Howards, 
Mrs. Howard kindly regretting that (she was pleased 
to say) she could not have the gratification of presenting 
me herself, but would consign me to her venerable 
friend. Lady Stourton, who was in all respects one of 
the most distinguished ladies I could have. 

It was an agitating but gratifying day ; and for- 
tunately I was so little embarrassed that I absolutely 
forgot, till I felt the train gently replaced on my arm 
after I had gone through the ceremonial, nor was I 
conscious of having so many yards of velvet sweeping 
behind me. When my name was announced to her 
Majesty, she smiled and looked most kindly. Nothing 
could be more gracious than her reception of my 
homage. 

Prince Albert returned my curtsey with a very 
courteous bow, and I passed from the presence with 
feelings of increased interest for the royal pair, but 
heard the most bitter and cruel remarks uttered 

1 The following letters of Miss Strickland are reprinted from 
her Life by J. M. Strickland, by kind permission of Messrs. William 
Blackwood & Sons. 

27 



4i8 AGNES STRICKLAND 

by some of the ladies who had preceded me through 
the ante-room, on what they styled the ungracious 
and repulsive behaviour of the Queen to themselves 
and others, I am sure she was all sweetness to me, and 
those who thought so hardly of her had no business 
to intrude themselves upon her under the pretext of 
paying their homage. 

On Monday I attended the birthday Drawing-room, 
and a brilliant scene it was. The Queen gave me a 
nod and smile of friendly recognition when the lord-in- 
waiting pronounced my name. Nothing could be 
more gracious. She seemed to understand my feelings 
towards her. After all was over, I joined the dear 
Mackinnons in the corridor. Louisa Mackinnon looked 
lovely in her excellently fancied dress, and is really 
one of the sweetest and most unaffected girls I know. 
You would have liked to see me in my Court costume — 
violet velvet, lined with primrose, over Brussels lace 
and white satin ; and from the absence of trimming 
and frippery, my nice historical dress cost less than 
many of the butterfly costumes round ine. It was 
very suitable for the occasion, and will be useful. 

You will, I know, rejoice to hear that I have had 
one of the most gratifying notes in the world from 
Guizot, the French ambassador, on " The Lives of the 
Queens." He has, besides, allowed me to quote this 
proud testimonial to the work in the Introduction to 
the third volume. 

Most ardently do I hope we may meet in town. I 
rejoice to hear you are daily improving in health ; 
and believe me ever, with much love, your affectionate 
friend, 

Agnes Strickland. 



"LIVES OF THE QUEENS" 419 

Agyies Strickland to her Mother 

A SCOTCH WEDDING 

[1846.] 

. , . The bridal was a beautiful scene, and very 
interesting. Constance Crauford, my dear mother, 
being a very superior and charming young woman, 
behaved with equal good sense and good feeling. On 
the eventful morning she took her usual seat at the 
breakfast-table and poured out the coffee as calmly 
as if nothing remarkable was to take place that day. 

At two o'clock all the ladies staying at the castle 
took a hasty lunch with Mrs. Crauford in her bed- 
chamber, as all the other rooms were required for the 
preparations. At three we assembled in full dress in 
the drawing-room. As none but the bride and her 
maiden train were to be robed in white, I wore a blue 
satin dress with white lace robin gs. Lady Adelaide 
Hastings a rose-coloured striped glace silk — indeed we 
were the only gay butterflies, excepting the bride' s- 
maids. There were two ceremonies — a white-robed 
Hymen and a black one — the bridegroom being an 
Episcopalian, while the bride, her parents, and brother 
were Presbyterians. So, after Dr. Buchanan of the 
Free Church had declared Mr. Fairlee and Constance 
roan and wife, the bridal party went into the library, 
where the Episcopal minister from Ayr was to unite 
the bride and bridegroom's hands according to the 
rites of the Anglican Church, having brought with him 
surplice, scarf, hood, and licence for the important 
occasion. He went through his ofhce rather sulkily, 
to my regret. As soon as the white-robed Hymen 
had concluded the ceremony, we all returned to the 



420 AGNES STRICKLAND 

drawing-room, when the bridegroom's best-man cut 
the wedding-cake, and we all drew for three oracular 
prizes attached to the bouquets of orange-blossoms 
that adorned it. These comprised a ring, a sixpence, 
and a thimble. The latter, which indicated a life of 
single blessedness, was drawn by the handsomest 
bachelor present, Mr. Burnet, laird of Gadsgarth. 
After this fun was over, the bride's-maids pinned on 
the elegant favours, and by that time the dinner was 
announced, which was served in the spacious ban- 
queting hall — a dinner that bonnie King Jamie would 
have rejoiced to see. The bride sat by the side of 
the newly wedded husband, looking a perfect picture 
in her splendid veil and virgin white ; and the sunbeams 
pouring through the painted-glass windows gave a 
beautiful effect to the scene. Two bands stationed 
without played the lively Scotch air, " Wooed an' 
married an' a'." 

At eight the bride retired to change her dress, and 
having kissed all the ladies, was led to her carriage 
by the bridegroom, whereupon Lady Adelaide Hastings 
and I, with the six bride's-maidens, flung each an old 
white-satin shoe after it for good luck. At the park 
gates a shower of old shoes of humbler pretensions 
flew round the carriage in all directions, flung by the 
cottars and their children. As for the politer white- 
satin shoes, they were eagerly collected by the spectators 
as memorials of Miss Crauford's wedding-day. 

Our festivities were to conclude with a ball given 
to the tenantry and retainers in the great barn, which 
was to be lighted up and decorated for the occasion. 
At ten o'clock the bride's-maids, and her son, Captain 
Reginald Crauford, conducted us through the woods 



THE SCOTCH REEL 421 

to the festive scene. The barn, with the arms and 
crest of the Crauford family wrought in flowers in the 
roof, and hung with evergreens, rather resembled 
a baronial castle than what it was, being splendidly- 
illuminated, and really made a fine ballroom. 

We were all expected to dance, and Captain Crauford 
set us a very good example by capering unweariedly 
with the lassies, who testified their good sense of the 
young laird's condescension in choosing them by very 
reverential curtseys. He certainly, in his young, pretty 
partners, was better off than we poor ladies were. 
My partner was an old man named Jemmy White, 
a very indefatigable dancer, who insisted that I should 
dance a reel with him, at the same time giving me an 
encouraging pat on the shoulder, as if I had been a 
little child, telling me " I was a bonnie lassie, and 
should do as well as ony o' them." I wish you could 
have seen me footing it away with my droll old man, and 
a beau gavcon for my alternate man. Well, my partner 
was so proud and elated with having got me, that he 
chose to change the reel into a polka by turning me round 
and round till I was out of breath with laughing. 

Miss Maxwell and Miss Cunninghame got partners of 
the same grade ; only my old man begged me not " to 
leave with my Lady Crauford, as there would be more 
fun going on after her departure." However, we had had 
enough of it, and departed with our amiable hostess at 
twelve, leaving Captain Crauford to conclude the revel. 

The following morning I took leave of Craufordland 
Castle and my dear friends for the kind Homes of 
Avontoun House, where your next letter will find me. 
Ever affectionately yours, 

Agnes Strickland. 



422 AGNES STRICKLAND 

Agnes Strickland to her Sister, Jane Strickland 

HOLIDAY-MAKING 

Lennoxlove, 1852. 

My dear Jane, — . . . I have been leading a merry life 
here with dear Georgina Stuart in these old halls during 
what she calls her bachelor regime. On Friday last 
we all set out on a real expedition in the elegant phaeton. 
I confess I rather trembled when I saw the reins in 
the delicate hands of my fair companion, who drove 
a spirited pair of spanking chesnuts over mountain 
and lea, to say nothing of deep glens and ravines. To 
be sure, we had the groom in the rumble ; but then he, 
as well as ourselves, might have been smashed in a 
moment if the carriage in turning sharp corners swung 
us over a rock or soused us into a rushing river. How- 
ever, the fair Georgina had undertaken nothing but 
what she was fully equal to. Unfortunately, there 
was no one to see the grand swell we made — she being 
the loveliest and most elegant young woman I ever 
saw ; and so affectionate and sweet in her manners. 

Our first halt was at her uncle Sir Patrick Stuart's, 
where we lunched, and feasted on strawberries and 
cream. Then we proceeded to Yester, the seat of the 
Marquis of Tweeddale, and there the young ladies of 
the family and a bevy of noble damsels were to meet 
us by appointment at the Goblin's Cave. Georgina 
resigned the reins to the groom, and v/e proceeded on 
foot to the eyrie whereon the magic-built castle sits 
in her lonely, ruined majesty so embosomed in thick 
woods that we could not see its ivy-mantled keep and 
turrets till we were under the walls. The Goblin's 
Cave is at the foot of the ruins, just above a brawling 



MAKING PORRIDGE 423 

little stream called the Tyne. Lady Jane Hay frightened 
one of her guests by hiding behind a rock and bouncing 
out upon her to personate the Goblin. 

The ladies were disappointed that I would not go 
into the cave, Lady Jane and Lady Emily Hay having 
kindly brought with them tapers and lucifer-matches 
to guide my steps therein ; but there was a phalanx 
of tall nettles to storm, and I did not wish to endanger 
the virgin whiteness of my bonnet, so I contented myself 
with examining the localities. 

When we descended the wooded steep, Lady Jane 
Hay volunteered to drive me through the beautiful 
grounds, while Georgina with Lady Julia and the rest 
of the party walked. I like Lady Jane very much 
indeed. 

. . . Yesterday we lunched wdth Sir George and Lady 
Susan Suttie. A lovely drive among the mountains of 
North Berwdck Law, and were feasted and made much 
of by the amiable family. Lady Susan sang sweetly 
Scotch songs to please me, and though it poured with 
rain, the girls insisted on my going to the porridge- 
making. I made some demurs on account of my blue 
damask dress, but Miss Suttie lent me a linsey-woolsey 
skirt, and provided Georgina with another. So we 
left our gala dresses behind, and got into Lady Susan's 
low phaeton ; and the youngest child, a pet named 
Kitty, sat on a low stool in front to drive us and her 
mamma. The rain ceased before we arrived at the 
farm, where the manufacture of the porridge was to 
take place. 

Little Kitty would help old Jenny Lamb to make 
the porridge. Twelve gallons of water, to which four 
pecks of Scotch meal were added, formed the simple 



424 AGNES STRICKLAND 

receipt — Kitty with her own hands pouring the meal 
into the copper, while old Jenny actively stirred the 
mixture. Lady Susan seated herself quietly on an 
ale-stool, while we stood round to see the process. 
Presently they shouted that it was done, and old Jenny 
quenched the fire, lest the porridge should burn. Then 
it was divided into fifteen single messes and seven 
double ones, and ladled into very clean little wooden 
stoups for the shearers' suppers, who had also a great 
" bap " or roll to eat with their mess. One stoup 
was reserved for our own use. So we all adjourned 
to the pretty little parlour to eat porridge and cream, 
which was dainty fare ; and then Lady Susan and I 
re-entered the phaeton, with our little black-eyed fairy 
to drive us all around the rocks, which rise a mighty 
range of battlements to shut in the gardens and house 
plantations. We had tea and coffee on our return, 
and, after restoring our borrowed garments to their 
rightful owners, bade adieu to their kind family with 
regret. 

I cannot tell you how beautiful Lennoxlove is, or 
how glorious the harvest. It is the garden of Scotland. 
Thank the dear mother for her pretty note. And with 
love to her and yourself, ever affectionately yours, 

Agnes Strickland. 



Agnes Strickland to her Mother 

KING EDWARD VII. 

September 12, 1861. 
My dear Mother, — . . . I was presented last night 
at the ball to the Prince of Wales by General Bruce, 



THE ROYAL CIRCLE 425 

though it seems this was not according to etiquette — 
only his Royal Highness wished for the introduction. 
He was very gracious, thanked me for having sent 
him my books, "which," he said, "had afforded him 
much pleasure," though, speaking of the Bachelor 
Kings, he assured me "he did not mean to be one." 

In person he is really a very pretty fellow, small 
in stature, but very well-shaped, and dignified in ap- 
pearance, though timid in manner. His eyes, eyebrows, 
and hair are really beautiful ; he has a handsome, 
well-cut, aquiline nose, full lips, beautiful teeth, and 
an agreeable smile. He blushed, and was a little 
agitated while speaking with me. He danced un- 
weariedly and very elegantly, though the height and 
fulness of some of his partners nearly eclipsed him. 



Agnes Strickland to her Sister, Jane Strickland 

QUEEN ALEXANDRA 

1863-4. 

... I had a capital view of the Princess of Wales 
while three ladies who preceded me were making their 
curtseys. She is very pretty, graceful, and intellectual 
in appearance, smaller than the Queen, but fairy-like 
and exquisitely proportioned. She wore a white silk 
skirt, wdth deep lace tunics, with red lilac aerophane 
to set them out, a train of the same colour, and a dia- 
mond necklace and tiara. She looked very royal and 
girlish too. She gave me a very gracious bow ; so 
did the Prince of Wales, who is very handsome, though 
short in stature. He must have been very proud of 
his beautiful wife. Prince Alfred, who stood by him, 



426 ANNA JAMESON 

is a head taller, and dark. Princess Helena and Princess 

Mary of Cambridge were there, the latter not looking 
her best. 



ANNA JAMESON (1794-1860) 

ELDEST daughter of Brownell Murphy. She wrote several 
books, chiefly on art criticism, her best known work being 
" Sacred and Legendary Art," Mrs. Jameson was a much- 
valued friend and correspondent of Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning. 



To Catherine Sedgwick ^ 

THE TENDRILS OF LIFE 

Ealing, October lo, 1849. 
My DEAREST Catherine, — As I was returning home 
yesterday in the railway train from Derbyshire, I 
was thinking of you, and that I must and should write 
to you forthwith ; and lo ! as I was walking up the 
road homewards I met the postman, who touched 
his hat, and put a letter into my hand — yours by Mrs. 
FoUen, but dated so long ago, July, and this is October. 
As I was devouring the lines by the imperfect light, 
I had nearly been run over by a stage-coach. I had 
heard of Mrs. Pollen's arrival, and only waited her 
arrival in town to hold out my arms to her. Yes, 
I remember her well ; and, for her own sake and for 
yours, I shall be charmed to see her again. How I 
feel sometimes the want of a residence in town, the 

1 This letter is reprinted from Mrs. Macpherson's " Memoir of 
Anna Jameson," by kind permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green 
& Co. 



AGE AND YOUTH 427 

want of a home to which I could welcome my friends ! 
This little cell in my mother's cottage is a sort of nest 
which just holds my books and me ; and though Words- 
worth talks of books having tendrils strong as flesh and 
blood, I feel often all the difference ; but not, I believe, 
on consideration, that it is we who have the tendrils 
and twine round our books. But, in any case, mine 
don't, except about very few : yours, perhaps — books 
which are not mere books. How is it with you ? With 
me it is as if the roots of my life and its tendrils too 
grew stronger as I grew older, and social life is becoming 
more necessary to me just as my power of commanding 
it is lessened ; but we must do the best we can. Is 
there no hope of your coming to England — none, not 
even in the far future ? But at least you can write a 
little oftener ; and so can I for that matter. Your 
last I received on April 4. I don't know how often 
I have written to you since. 

But I have not yet told you something in which you 
will sympathise with me truly. My niece Gerardine 
was married on September 4 to Robert Macpherson, 
an artist by profession, of a good Highland family, and 
a good, Idnd, honest-hearted man. I was against the 
union at first ; but what seemed a sudden rash fancy 
on both sides became respectable from its constancy. 
I am glad now that I yielded. She may probably have 
to suffer : there will be a struggle \\dth the world ; but 
at least the natural life will have flowed in its healthy, 
natural course, and the trials which come will mature, 
and will not embitter, the character. I hold to the 
right of every human being to work out their own sal- 
vation ; and the old have a right to advise, but no 
right to prescribe an existence to the young. So Geddie 



428 ANNA JAMESON 

has married the man whom she preferred from the 
first moment she saw him, and as yet they are enchanted 
with each other. They are now in Scotland, residing 
among his friends and relations, and they return to 
Rome, which will be their residence for some years, 
in about three weeks. Then I lose my child, poor 
little thing ; and the present state of Italy makes 
me anxious, but he understands his position, the place, 
and the people; and I hope the best. Probably I 
shall be in Italy myself next year. . . . 

Do you know Mrs. Browning, who was Elizabeth 
Barrett, the poetess ? I have had a charming letter 
from her. Think of the poor invalid being the mother 
of a fine boy ! . . . I don't, and won't admire Jenny 
Lind, whose success has been of a kind to make all 
such triumphs ridiculous. She is an accomplished 
singer, and second-rate actress ; we have had so many 
better ! Of my dear friend Lady Byron, I can only 
say that she is rather better than she was a month ago. 
It is a hopeless state of invalidism, but such a tenacity 
of life that I do not give way to terror about her now, 
as I used to do. . . . 

Ever, dearest Catherine, 

Your affectionate friend. 



FANNY KEMBLE (1809-1893) 

DAUGHTER of John Philip Kemble, the great actor; made 
her debut at Covent Garden in 1829 as Juliet. She was a 
great success, and for three years played in London. In 
1832 she went to America and married Mr. Butler, a planter. 
Later she returned to England, and engaged in literary and 
dramatic work. 




\ 




FANNY KEMBLE 
(MRS. butler) 

From a lithograph, after a draining 
by Sir Thomas Laurence, P.R.A. 



p. 428] 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 429 



To 



PRIVILEGES OF CHILDHOOD 
Harley Street, London, Sunday, December 26, 1841. 

Dear Harriet, — 'I must tell you a droll little incident 
that occurred the day of our leaving Bowood. As I 

was crossing the great hall, holding little F by 

the hand, Lord Lansdowne and Moore, who were 
talking at the other end, came towards me, and, while 
the former expressed kind regrets for our departure, 
Moore took up the child and kissed her, and set her 
down again, when she clutched hold of my gown, 
and trotted silently out of the hall by my side. As 
the great red door closed behind us, on our way to 
my rooms, she said, in a tone that I thought indicated 
some stifled sense of offended dignity, " Pray, mamma, 
who was that little gentleman ? " 

Now, Harriet, though Moore's fame is great, his 
stature is little, and my belief is that my three-year-old 
daughter was suffering under an impression that she 
had been taken a liberty with by some enterprising 
schoolboy. Oh, Harriet ! think if one of his own Irish 
rosebuds of sixteen had received that poet's kiss, how 
long it would have been before she would have washed 
that side of her face ! I believe if he had bestowed 
it upon me, I would have kept mine from water for 
its sake, till bedtime. Indeed, when first " Lalla 
Rookh " came out I think I might have made a little 
circle on that cheek, and dedicated it to Tom Moore 
and dirt for ever ; that is — till I forgot all about it, 

^ This and the three following letters are reprinted from " Records 
of a Later Life," by Frances A. Kemble, by kind permission of 
Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd. 



430 FANNY KEMBLE 

and my habit of plunging my face into water whenever 
I dress got the better of my finer feelings. But, you 
see, he didn't kiss my stupid little child's intelligent 
mother, and this is the way that fool Fortune mis- 
bestows her favours. She is spiteful, too, that whirlgigg 
woman with the wheel. I am not an autograph collector, 
of course ; if I was I shouldn't have got the prize I 
received yesterday, when Rogers, after mending a 
pen for me, and tenderly caressing the nib of it with 
a knife as sharp as his own tongue, wrote, in his beautiful, 
delicate, fine hand, by way of trying it: 

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown. 

Is that a quotation from himself or some one else ? 
or was it an impromptu ? — a seer's vision, and friend's 
warning ? Chi sa ? . . . 

Ever yours, 

Fanny. 



Fanny Kemhle to Harriet ■ — 

A PRESENTATION AT COURT 

Harley Street, May i, 1842. 
My dearest Harriet, — . . . You ask about my going 
to the Drawing-room, which happened thus : the 
Duke of Rutland dined some little time ago at the 
Palace, and speaking of the late party at Belvoir, men- 
tioned me, when the Queen asked why I didn't have 
myself presented. The duke called the next day 
at our house, but we did not see him, and he being 
obliged to go out of town, left a message for me with 



FANNY KEMBLE AT COURT 431 

Lady Londonderry, to the effect that her Majesty's 
interest about me (curiosity would have been the more 
exact word, I suspect) rendered it imperative that 
I should go to the Drawing-room ; and indeed. 
Lady Londonderry's authoritative " Of course you'll 
go," given in her most gracious manner, left me no 
doubt whatever as to my duty in that respect, 
especially as the message duly delivered by her was 
followed up by a letter from the duke, from Newmarket, 
who, from the midst of his bets, handicaps, sweepstakes, 
and cups, wrote me over again all that he had bid the 
marchioness tell me. Wherefore, having no objection 
whatever to go to Court (except, indeed, the expense 
of my dress, the idea of which caused me no slight 
trepidation, as I had already exceeded my year's allow- 
ance), I referred the matter to my supreme authority ; 
and it being settled that I was to go, I ordered my 
tail, and my top, train, and feathers, and went. And 
this is the whole story, with this postscript, that, not 
owning a single diamond, I hired a handsome set for 
the occasion from Abud and CoUingwood, every single 
stone of which darted a sharp point of nervous anxiety 
into my brain and bosom the whole time I wore them. . . 
I suffered agonies of nervousness, and, I rather 
think, did all sorts of awkward things ; but so, I dare 
say, do other people in the same predicament, and 
I did not trouble my head much about my various 
w«s-performances. One thing, however, I can tell 
you, if her Majesty has seen me, I have not seen her ; 
and should be quite excusable in cutting her wherever 
I met her. " A cat may look at a king," it is said ; 
but how about looking at the Queen ? In great un- 
certainty of mind on this point, I did not look at my 



432 FANNY KEMBLE 

sovereign lady. I kissed a soft, white hand, which 
I believe was hers ; I saw a pair of very handsome 
legs, in very fine silk stockings, which I am convinced 
were not hers, but am inclined to attribute to Prince 
Albert, and this is all I perceived of the whole royal 
family of England, for I made a sweeping curtsey to 
the " good remainders of the Court," and came away 
with no impression but that of a crowded mass of 
full-dressed confusion, and neither know how I got in 
or out of it. . . . 

Yours ever, 

Fanny. 



Fanny Kemble to 



CHARACTERISTICS OF MACREADY 

King Street, Wednesday, 23, 1840. 
The staircase I have to go up to my dressing-room 
at the Princess's Theatre is one with which you are 
unacquainted, my dearest Hal, for it is quite in another 
part of the house, beyond the green-room, and before 
you come to the stage. . . . Not only had I this incon- 
venient distance and height to go, but the dressing- 
room appointed for me had not even a fireplace in 
it ; at this I remonstrated, and am now accommodated 
decently in a room with a fire, though in the same 
inconvenient position as regards the stage. . . . Mr. 
Maddox assured me that Macready poisoned every 
place he went into, to such a degree, with musk and 
perfumes, that if he were to give up his room to me, 
I should not be able to breathe in it. With my passion 
for perfumes, this, however, did not appear to me so 



ACTING WITH MACREADY 4.33 

certain ; but the room I now have answers my purpose 
quite well enough. . . . 

Macready is not pleasant to act with, as he keeps 
no specific time for his exits or entrances, comes on 
while one is in the middle of a soliloquy, and goes 
off while one is in the middle of a speech to him. He 
growls and prowls, and roams and foams, about the 
stage in every direction, like a tiger in his cage, so that 
I never know on what side of me he means to be ; 
and keeps up a perpetual snarling and grumbling like 
the aforesaid tiger, so that I never feel quite sure that 
he has done, and that it is my turn to speak. I do 
not think fifty pounds a night would hire me to play 
another engagement with him ; but I only say, I 
don't think — fifty pounds a night is a consideration, 
four times a week, and I have not forgotten the French 
proverb, " // ne faut pas dire, fontaine, jamais de ton 
eau je ne boirai." 

I do not know how Desdemona might have affected 
me under other circumstances, but my only feeling 
about acting it with Mr. Macready is dread of his 
personal violence. I quail at the idea of his laying 
hold of me in those terrible, passionate scenes ; for 
in Macbeth he pinched me black and blue, and 
almost tore the point lace from my head. I am sure 
my little finger will be rebroken, and as for that smother- 
ing in bed, " Heaven have mercy upon me ! " as poor 
Desdemona says. If that foolish creature wouldn't 
persist in talking long after she has been smothered 
and stabbed to death, one might escape by the off 
side of the bed, and leave the bolster to be questioned 
by Emilia, and apostrophised by Othello ; but she 
will uplift her testimony after death to her husband's 

28 



434 FANNY KEMBLE 

amiable treatment of her, and even the bolster wouldn't 
be stupid enough for that. 

Did it ever occur to you what a witness to Othello's 
agony in murdering his wretched wife his inefficient 
clumsiness in the process was — his half-smothering, 
his half-stabbing her ? That man not to be able to kill 
that woman outright, with one hand on her throat, or 
one stroke of his dagger. How tortured he must have 
been, to have bungled so at his work ' 

I wish I was Avith you and Dorothy at St. Leonards 
instead of struggling here for my life — livelihood, at 
any rate — with Macready ; but that's foolish. He 
can't touch me to-night, that's one comfort, for I am 
Queen Katherine. 

Farewell, believe me. 

Ever yours most respectfully, 

Fanny. 

Fanny Kemhle to 



MACREADY AGAIN 
King Street, Friday, February 25, 1845. 
Dear Hal, — ... I got through Desdemona very 
well, as far as my personal safety was concerned ; for 
though I fell on the stage in real hysterics at the end 
of one of those horrible scenes with Othello, Macready 
was more considerate than I had expected, did not 
rebreak my little finger, and did not really smother me in 
bed. I played the part fairly well, and wish you had 
seen it. I was tolerably satisfied with it myself, which, 
you know, I am not often, with my own theatrical 
performances. ... I really believe Macready cannot 
help being as odious as he is on the stage. He very 



REALISM IN ACTING 435 

nearly made me faint last night in Macbeth with 
crushing my broken finger, and, by way of apology, 
merely coolly observed that he really could not answer 
for himself in such a scene, and that I ought to wear a 
splint ; and truly, if I act much more with him, I think 
I shall require several splints, for several broken limbs. 
I have been rehearsing Hamlet v/ith him this morning 
for three hours. I do not mind his tiresome particu- 
larity on the stage, for, though it all goes to making 
himself the only object of everything and everybody, 
he works very hard, and is zealous, and conscientious, 
and laborious in his duty, which is a merit in itself. 
But I think it is rather mean (as the children say) of 
him to refuse to act in such plays as King John, 
Much Ado about Nothing, which are pieces of his 
own too, to oblige me ; whilst I have studied expressly 
for him, Desdemona, Ophelia, Cordelia, parts quite out 
of my line, merely that his plays may be strengthened 
by my name. Moreover, he has not scrupled to ask 
me to study new parts, in new plays which have been 
either written expressly only for him, or cut down to 
suit his peculiar requisitions. This, however, I have 
declined doing. Anything of Shakespeare's is good 
enough, and too good, for me. ... I shall have a nausea 
of fright till after I have done singing in Ophelia 
to-morrow night. 

Ever yours, 

Fanny. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806-1861) 

WAS the daughter of Mr. Moulton Barrett, a wealthy West 
India planter. Although a great invalid, she attained 
wide recognition as a poetess, and among those who were 



436 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

attracted by her work was Robert Browning, She after- 
wards married him in spite of the opposition of her father, 
with whom she was never reconciled. She continued to write 
after her marriage, which was a singularly happy one. Mrs. 
Browning was no less celebrated as a letter-writer than a 
poetess. 

To Leigh Hunt 

ON " AURORA LEIGH " 

Bagni di Lucca, October 6, 1857. 
Dear Friend, — I will say, for I feel it must be some- 
thing as good as friendship that can forgive and under- 
stand this silence, so much like the veriest human kind 
of ingratitude. When I look back and think — all this 
time after that letter, and not a sign made — I wonder. 
Yet if you knew ! First of all, we were silent because 
we waited for information which you seemed to desire. 
. . . Then there were sadder reasons. Poor Aurora, 
that you were so more than kind to (oh, how can I think 
of it ?), has been steeped in tears, and some of them of 
a very bitter sort. Your letter was addressed to my 
husband, you knowing by your delicate, true instinct 
where your praise would give most pleasure ; but I 
believe Robert had not the heart to write when I felt 
that I should not have the spirits to add a word in the 
proper key. When we came here from Florence a few 
months ago to get repose and cheerfulness from the 
sight of the mountains, we said to ourselves that we 
would speak to you at ease — instead of which the word 
was taken from our own mouth, and we have done little 
but sit by sickbeds and meditate on gastric fevers. So 
disturbed we have been — so sad ! our darling, precious 
child the last victim. To see him lying still on his 



"AURORA LEIGH" 437 

golden curls, with cheeks too scarlet to suit the poor, 
patient eyes, looking so frightfully like an angel ! It 
was very hard. But this is over, I do thank God, and 
we are on the point of carrying back our treasure with 
us to Florence to-morrow, quite recovered, if a little 
thinner and weaker, and the young voice as merry as 
ever. You are aware that that child I am more proud 
of than twenty Auroras, even after Leigh Hunt has praised 
them. He is eight years old, has never been " crammed," 
but reads English, Italian, French, German, and plays 
the piano — then, is the sweetest child ! sweeter than he 
looks. When he was ill he said to me, " You pet ! don't 
be unhappy about me. Think it's a boy in the street, 
and be a little sorry but not unhappy." Who could not 
be unhappy, I wonder. 

I never saw your book called "The Religion of the 
Heart." It's the only book of yours I never saw, and I 
mean to wipe out that reproach on the soonest day 
possible. I receive more dogmas, perhaps (my " perhaps " 
being in the dark rather), than you do. I believe in the 
divinity of Jesus Christ in the intensest sense — that He 
was God absolutely. But for the rest, I am very un- 
orthodox — about the Spirit, the flesh, and the devil ; 
and if you would not let me sit by you, a great many 
Churchmen wouldn't ; in fact, churches do all of them, 
as at present constituted, seem too narrow and low to 
hold true Christianity in its proximate developments. 
I, at least, cannot help believing them so. 

My dear friend, can we dare, after our sins against 
you — can we dare wish for a letter from you some- 
times ? Ask, we dare not. May God bless you. Even 
if you had not praised me and made me so grateful, I 
should be grateful to you for three things — for your 



438 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

poetry (that first), then for Milton's hair, and then 
for the memory I have of our visit to you, when you 
sat in that chair and spoke so mildly and deeply at once. 
Let me be ever affectionately yours, 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



GEORGE ELIOT (Mary Ann Evans) (1819-1880) 

WAS born at Arbury Farm, near Nuneaton, the youngest 
daughter of Robert Evans. Her earUest literary work 
consisted of a translation of Strauss's " Leben Jesu." After 
a visit to Geneva, she went to London and became a con- 
tributor to, and afterwards assistant-editor of The Westminster 
Review. Encouraged by her friend, George H. Lewes, Miss 
Evans began to write fiction, and her first book, " Scenes 
of Clerical Life " (1857), was followed by " Adam Bede " 
(1859), which was instantly successful. Her subsequent 
novels "The Mill on the Floss" (i860), "Silas Marner " 
(1861), " Romola " (1863), " Felix Holt," and " Middle- 
march " (187 1-2), all published under her pseudonym "George 
Eliot," contributed to her fame as a great writer of fiction; 
but her later work was less successful. In May 1880 George 
Eliot married her old friend Mr, J. W. Cross, but her death 
took place a few months later, in Decem.ber of the same 
year. 

To Madame Bodichon ^ 

SPANISH SCENERY 

Barcelona, February 2, 1867 
Are you astonished to see our whereabouts ? We 
left Biarritz for San Sebastian, where we stayed three 

^ Reprinted from the " Life and Letters of George Eliot," by 
kind permission of Mr. J. W. Cross, and Messrs. William Blackwood 
& Sons. 



GEORGE ELIOT IN SPAIN 439 

days ; and both, there and all our way to Barcelona 
our life has been a succession of delights. We have 
had perfect weather, blue skies, and a warm sun. We 
travelled from San Sebastian to Saragossa, where we 
passed two nights ; then to Lerida for one night, and 
yesterday to Barcelona. You know the scenery from 
San Sebastian to Alsasua, through the lower Pyrenees, 
because it lies on the way to Burgos and Madrid. At 
Alsasua we turned off through Navarre into Aragon, 
seeing famous Pampeluna, looking as beautiful as it 
did ages ago among the grand hills. At Saragossa 
the scene was thoroughly changed ; all through Ara- 
gon, as far as we could see, I should think the country 
resembles the highlands of Central Spain. There is 
the most striking effect of hills, flanking the plain of 
Saragossa, I ever saw. They are of palish clay, washed 
by the rains into undulating forms, and some slight 
herbage upon them makes the shadows of an exquisite 
blue. 

These hills accompanied us in the distance all the 
way through Aragon, the snowy mountains topping 
them in the far distance. The land is all pale brown, 
the numerous towns and villages just match the land, 
and so do the sheepfolds, built of mud or stone. The 
herbage is all of an ashy green. Perhaps if I had 
been in Africa I should say, as you do, that the coun- 
try reminded me of Africa ; as it is, I think of all I 
have read about the East. The men who look on 
while others work at Saragossa also seem to belong to 
the East, with a great striped blanket wrapped grandly 
round them, and a kerchief tied about their hair. But 
though Aragon was held by the Moors longer than any 
part of Northern Spain, the features and skins of the 



440 GEORGE ELIOT 

people seem to me to bear less traces of the mixture 
there must have been than one would fairly expect. 
Saragossa has a grand character still, in spite of the 
stucco with which the people have daubed the beautiful 
small brick of which the houses are built. Here and 
there one sees a house left undesecrated by stucco ; 
and all of them have the fluted tiles and the broad 
eaves beautifully ornamented. Again, one side of the 
old cathedral still shows the exquisite inlaid work which, 
in the facade, has been overlaid hideously. Gradually, 
as we left Aragon and entered Catalonia, the face of 
the country changed, and we had almost every sort of 
beauty in succession ; last of all, between Montserrat 
and Barcelona, a perfect garden, with the richest red soil 
— blossoms on the plum and cherry trees, aloes thick 
in the hedges. At present we are waiting for the 
Spanish hardships to begin. Even at Lerida, a place 
scarcely at all affected by foreign travellers, we were 
perfectly comfortable — and such sights ! The people 
scattered on the brown slopes of rough earth round the 
fortress — the women knitting, etc., the men playing at 
cards, one wonderful, gaudily dressed group ; another 
of handsome gypsies. We are actually going by- 
steamboat to Alicante, and from Alicante to Malaga. 
Then we mean to see Granada, Cordova, and Seville. 
We shall only stay here a few days — if this weather 
continues. 

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894) 

Christina Georgiana, was the daughter of Gabriele Rossetti, 
a distinguished Italian exile, and sister of Dante Gabriel 
Rossetti, and Mr. William Michael Rossetti. She began to 
write verse while still a child, but her earliest volume, 



"PORTUGUESE SONNETS" 441 

" Gobelin Market and Other Poems " (1862), marked her as 
a poetess of the highest order and originahty. In her subse- 
quent works (which comprise many volumes afterwards 
published in a collected form) her rare gift of expression 
was developed. Many of her poems are devotional, but 
every line that she wrote shows the hand of the true poetess. 

To Dante Gabriel Rossetti ^ 

THE DANTE PICTURE 
30, ToRRiNGTON SQUARE, W.C. [September 5, 1881]. 
My DEAR Gabriel, — We are all congratulant over the 
Dante picture. Mamma heading our family phalanx. 
I do certainly think it would have been sacrificing real 
advantage to a mere punctilio if you had held out about 
its being sold (merely in appearance) from the Exhibition. 
It looks very friendly of Mr. Caine to have gone off to 
Liverpool on purpose to see with his own eyes. I am 
much pleased with his Academy article, though sorry that 
he seems to have misapprehended my reference to the 
" Portuguese Sonnets." Surely not only what I meant 
to say but what I do say is, not that the Lady of those 
sonnets is surpassable, but that a " Donna innominata " 
by the same hand might well have been unsurpassable. 
The Lady in question, as she actually stands, I was not 
regarding as an " innominata " at all — because the^, 
later type, according to the traditional figures I had in 
view, is surrounded by unlike circumstances. I rather 
wonder that no one (so far as I know) ever hit on my 
semi-historical argument before for such treatment — 
it seems to me so full of poetic suggestiveness. That 
you praise it endorses its worth to me, and I am graced 

1 These letters of Miss Rossetti are reprinted from her " Family 
Letters," by kind permission of Mr. William Michael Rossetti. 



442 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

by Mr. Watts 's approbation. I do not recall anything in 
my private [? previous] volume which foreshadows the 
" Ballad of Boding " ; but your memory may well outdo 
mine. As to the Sonnet you hint at, I cannot joke on 
that subject. I am desirous of the Athencsum critique, 
and fancied it might be out ere this ; but am not im- 
patient. In a letter from Mrs. Scotters sent me up a 
warm admiring word on "Monna." . . . 

To get back a moment to my book. I cannot forbear 
adding how delighted I am at the favourable verdicts 
on the " Pageant." / fancy it among the best and most 
wholesome things I have produced, and I have had a 
quiet grin over October's remark which ushers in 
November, as connecting it with my own brothers and 
myself ! Pray appreciate the portrait. — It dawns upon 
me that " Sleep at Sea " is the piece in your mind. I 
hope the diversity is sufficient to justifiy the " Ballad of 
Boding." 

Surely you need not restrict your affectionate family 
callers to those moments when there is something " to 
show"; but this is merely an observation en passant. 

With a best of good loves from our Mother, etc. 



Christina Rossetti to William Michael Rossetti 

SWINBURNE 

July 26, 1882. 
My dear William, — Before I say how delighted 
Mamma was with your letter yesterday, I will beg you 
to convey her thanks to Lucy for her previous one, which 
was the first to tell us the good news of your being better. 
. . . You may think how (if possible) our Mother is 



SWINBURNE 443 

now more than ever anxious that no imprudence should 
detract from the well-being of her " Willie Wee " — now 
that her four have dwdndled to 2. Everything you 
narrate or can narrate of your funny little five cheers 
and interests her warm, grandmotherly heart. I wish 
little Mary may inherit inward virtues even more than 
outward beauty from our fine-natured and fine-per- 
sonned Grandmother ; of whom, by the by, / some- 
times reminded Mamma in my early days. . . . 

Do you remember how our Maria was impressed by the 
impartiality of your " Lives of Poets " ? Now I am so 
too, as well as by the admirable lucidity of your style. 
The facts would be interesting under any treatment, but 
you help instead of hindering readers. Those were 
interesting notes about Trelawny you lately contributed 
to the AthencBum, and naturally I clap hands at your 
review of Longfellow. 

Please give Lucy our two loves, and (if you can get 
through them) our ten kisses to Olive, Arthur, Helen, 
Mary, Michael. What a prostrate poem does Mr. 
Swinburne address to the twins ! He has kindly pre- 
sented me with his volume, a valued gift, and I 
cannot forbear lending you — more especially lending 
Lucy — the letter which accompanied the book. How 
much I like the Dedications, both prose and verse. 
This is the fourth book he has sent me, and I not one 
hitherto to him — so for lack of aught else I am actually 
offering him a " Called to be Saints," merely, however, 
drawing his attention to the verses. 

Mr. Sharp has paid us two visits, one this afternoon, 
all about his book. Through Aunt Charlotte he has 
had access to the " Girlhood " picture, and soon he 
hopes to see what Miss Heaton has at Leeds. I called 



444 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

his attention to the window and pulpit at Scarborough, 
of which apparently he had never even heard. He tells 
us that Mr. Tirebuck is sub-editor of a Yorkshire paper, 
I forget the name. Some of the Memoir of Gabriel I 
really admire, so I have far from ended in mere laughter 
at the style. Oh dear ! how willingly would I incur 
Income Tax for the sake of not murdering Egyptians 
or any one else ; and our Mother would, I am sure, 
double or triple hers with the same object. 

I was forgetting to tell you that Mamma has lent Mr. 
Sharp her cherished " Main's Sonnet Book," giving him 
leave to have the Sonnet drawing engraved for his book. 
Mr. Clarke considered that the original could far more 
advantageously be worked from than could Mr. Sharp's 
photograph of the same. 



Printed by Hazell, JVaisou <5r» Fi/iej', Ld., London and Aylesbury. 



ERRATUM 

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Lady Thackeray read Lady Ritchie. 



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